THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


•  ERTr 


'THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE"  AND  'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS 


NEGHBORLY    POEMS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS, 

INCLUDING  "THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE.' 

SKETCHES  IN  PROSE, 

INCLUDING  THE  Boss  GIRL. 

AFTERWHILES:  DIALECT 

AND  OTHER  POETRY. 

PIPES  O'PAN:  FIVE  SKETCHES 

AND  FIFTY  POEMS. 

RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD:  DIALECT 
AND  OTHER  VEKSES. 

THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT: 

A  FANTASTIC  DRAMA  IN  VERSE. 

AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE:   A  FLAT  QUARTO 
ILLUSTRATED  IN  COLORS. 

PUBLISHED  BY 
THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  CO.,  INDIANAPOLIS. 


IN  ENGLAND- 
OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES: 

POEMS,  DIALECT  AND  VARIOUS. 

PUBLISHED  BY 
LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.,  LONDON. 


"  When  I  ust  to  lean  above  it  on  the  old  sickamore.' 


"THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE"  AND 
'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS 

ON  FRIENDSHIP 

GRIEF  AND 

FARM-LIFE 


BY 

BENJ.  F.  JOHNSON,  OF  BOONE 

[JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY.] 


1891 

THE   BOWEN-MERRILL  CO 

INDIANAPOLIS,    IND 


DEDICATION 

TO 

THE  EVER-FAITHFUL,  WHOLE-SOULED,  HONEST-HEARTED 
HOOSIER  FRIENDS,  IN  COUNTRY  AND  IN  TOWN, 

THIS   LITTLE  BOOK 
IS  GRATEFULLY  AND  LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED. 


Copyrighted  1883  by  J.  W.  Riley. 
Copyrighted  1891  by  J.  W.  Riley. 


PS 


PREFACE  AND  SUB-PREFACE. 

As  FAR  back  into  boyhood  as  the  writer's  memory 
may  intelligently  go,  the  "country  poet"  is  most 
pleasantly  recalled.  He  was,  and  is,  as  common 
as  the  "country  fiddler,"  and  as  full  of  good  old- 
fashioned  music.  Not  a  master  of  melody,  indeed, 
but  a  poet,  certainly — 

"Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies." 

And  it  is  simply  the  purpose  of  this  series  of  dia 
lectic  studies  to  reflect  the  real  worth  of  this  homely 
child  of  nature,  and  to  echo  faithfully,  if  possible, 
the  faltering  music  of  his  song. 

In  adding  to  this  series,  as  the  writer  has,  for 
many  years,  been  urged  to  do,  and  answering  as 
steadfast  a  demand  of  Benj.  F.  Johnson's  first  and 
oldest  friends,  it  has  been  decided  that  this  further 
work  of  his  be  introduced  to  the  reader  of  the 
volume  as  was  the  old  man's  first  work  to  the 
reader  of  the  newspaper  of  nearly  ten  years  ago. 

Directly,    then,    referring    to    the    Indianapolis 


691975 


PREFACE. 


Daily  Journal — under  whose  management  the 
writer  had  for  some  time  been  employed, — from  issue 
of  date  June  17,  1882,  under  editorial  caption  of 
"A  Boone  County  Pastoral,"  this  article  is  herewith 
quoted : 

Benj.  F.  Johnson,  of  Boone  county,  who  considers  the 
Journal  a  "very  valubul"  newspaper,  writes  to  inclose  us  an 
original  poem,  desiring  that  we  kindly  accept  it  for  publica 
tion,  as  "many  neghbors  and  friends  is  astin'  him  to  have  the 
same  struck  off." 

Mr.  Johnson  thoughtfully  informs  us  that  he  is  "no  edjucat- 
ed  man,"  but  that  he  has,  "from  childhood  up  tel  old  enugh  to 
vote,  allus  wrote  more  er  less  poetry,  as  many  of  an  albun  in 
the  neghborhood  can  testify."  Again,  he  says  that  he  writes 
"from  the  hart  out;"  and  there  is  a  touch  of  genuine  pathos  in 
the  frank  avowal,  "Thare  is  times  when  I  write  the  tears  rolls 
down  my  cheeks." 

In  all  sincerity,  Mr.  Johnson,  we  are  glad  to  publish  the 
poem  you  send,  and  just  as  you  have  written  it.  That  is  its 
greatest  charm.  Its  very  defects  compose  its  excellence.  You 
need  no  better  education  than  the  one  from  which  emanates 
"The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole."  It  is  real  poetry,  and  all  the 
more  tender  and  lovable  for  the  unquestionable  evidence  it 
bears  of  having  been  written  "from  the  hart  out."  The  only 
thing  we  find  to — but  hold !  Let  us  first  lay  the  poem  before 
the  reader: 

Here  followed  the  poem,  "The  Old  Swimmin'- 
Hole,"  entire — the  editorial  comment  ending  as 
follows : 

The  only  thing  now,  Mr.  Johnson — as  we  were  about  to 


PREFACE.  vii 


observe — the  only  thing  we  find  to  criticise,  at  all  relative  to 
the  poem,  is  your  closing  statement  to  the  effect  that  "It  was 
wrote  to  go  to  the  tune  of  'The  Captin  with  his  Whiskers!'  " 
You  should  not  have  told  us  that,  O  Rare  Ben.  Johnson ! 

A  week  later,  in  the  Journal  of  date  June  24th, 
followed  this  additional  mention  of  "Benj.  F. 
Johnson,  of  Boone:" 

It  is  a  pleasure  for  us  to  note  that  the  publication  of  the 
poem  of  "The  Old  Swimmin'-Hole,"  to  which  the  Journal, 
with  just  pride,  referred  last  week,  has  proved  almost  as  great 
a  pleasure  to  its  author  as  to  the  hosts  of  delighted  readers 
who  have  written  in  its  praise,  or  called  to  personally  indonse 
our  high  opinion  of  its  poetic  value.  We  have  just  received 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Johnson,  the  author,  inclosing  us  another 
lyrical  performance,  which  in  many  features  even  surpasses  the 
originality  and  spirit  of  the  former  effort.  Certainly  the  least 
that  can  be  said  of  it  is  that  it  stands  a  thorough  proof  of  our 
first  assertion,  that  the  author,  though  by  no  means  a  man  of 
learning  and  profound  literary  attainments,  is  none  the  less  a 
true  poet  and  an  artist.  The  letter,  accompanying  this  later 
amaranth  of  blooming  wildwood  verse,  we  publish  in  its  entirety, 
assured  that  Mr.  Johnson's  many  admirers  will  be  charmed,  as 
we  have  been,  at  the  delicious  glimpse  he  gives  us  of  his  in 
spiration,  modes  of  study,  home-life  and  surroundings. 

"To  the  Editer  of  the  Indanoplus  Jurnal: 

"Respected  Sir — The  paper  is  here,  markm'  the  old  swim- 
min'-hole,  my  poetry  which  you  seem  to  like  so  well.  I  joy 
to  see  it  in  print,  and  I  thank  you,  hart  and  voice,  for  speak- 
in'  of  its  merrits  in  the  way  in  which  you  do.  I  am  glad  you 
thought  it  was  real  poetry,  as  you  said  in  your  artikle.  But  I 
make  bold  to  ast  you  what  was  your  idy  in  sayin'  I  had 


PREFACE. 


orient  of  told  you  it  went  to  the  tune  I  spoke  of  in  my  last. 
I  felt  highly  flatered  tel  I  got  that  fur.  Was  it  because  you 
don't  know  the  tune  refered  to  in  the  letter  ?  Er  wasent  some 
words  spelt  right  er  not  ?  Still  ef  you  hadent  of  said  somepin 
aginst  it  Ide  of  thought  you  was  makin'  fun.  As  I  said  before 
1  well  know  my  own  unedjucation,  but  I  don't  think  that  is 
any  reason  the  feelin's  of  the  soul  is  stunted  in  theyr  growth 
however.  'Juge  not  less  ye  be  juged,'  says  The  Good  Book,  and 
so  say  I,  ef  I  thought  you  was  makin'  fun  of  the  lines  that  I 
wrote  and  which  you  done  me  the  onner  to  have  printed  off  in 
sich  fine  style  that  I  have  read  it  over  and  over  again  in  the 
paper  you  sent,  and  I  would  like  to  have  about  three  more  ef 
you  can  spare  the  same  and  state  by  mail  what  they  will  come 
at.  All  nature  was  in  tune  day  before  yisterday  when  your 
paper  come  to  hand.  It  had  ben  a-raining  hard  fer  some 
days,  but  that  morning  opened  up  as  clear  as  a  whissel.  No 
clouds  was  in  the  sky,  and  the  air  was  bammy  with  the  warm 
sunshine  and  the  wet  smell  of  the  earth  and  the  locus  blossoms 
and  the  flowrs  and  pennyroil  and  boneset.  I  got  up,  the 
first  one  about  the  place,  and  went  forth  to  the  plesant  fields. 
I  fed  the  stock  with  lavish  hand  and  wortered  them  in  merry 
glee,  they  was  no  bird  in  all  the  land  no  happier  than  me.  I 
have  jest  wrote  a  verse  of  poetry  in  this  letter;  see  ef  you  can 
find  it.  I  also  send  you  a  whole  poem  which  was  wrote  off 
the  very  day  your  paper  come.  I  started  it  in  the  morning 
I  have  so  feebly  tride  to  pictur  to  you  and  wound  her  up  by 
suppertime,  besides  doin'  a  fare  day's  work  around  the  place. 
Ef  you  print  this  one  I  think  you  will  like  it  better  than  the 
other.  This  aint  a  sad  poem  like  the  other  was,  but  you  will 
find  it  full  of  careful  thought.  I  pride  myself  on  that.  I  also 
send  you  30  cents  in  stamps  fer  you  to  take  your  pay  out  of 
fer  the  other  papers  I  said,  and  also  fer  three  more  with 


PREFA  CE. 


this  in  it  ef  you  have  it  printed  and  oblige.  Ef  you  don't 
print  this  poem,  keep  the  stamps  and  send  me  three  more 
papers  with  the  other  one  in — makin'  the  sum  totul  of  six  (6) 
papers  altogether  in  full.  Ever  your  true  friend, 

BENJ.  F.  JOHNSON. 
"N.  B. — The  tune  of  this  one  is  The  Bold  Privateer." 

Here  followed  the  poem,  "  Thoughts  Fer  The 
Discuraged  Farmer;" — and  here,  too,  fittingly  ends 
any  comment  but  that  which  would  appear  trivial 
and  gratuitous. 

Simply,  in  briefest  conclusion,  the  hale,  sound, 
artless,  lovable  character  of  Benj.  F.  Johnson  remains, 
in  the  writer's  mind,  as  from  the  first,  far  less  a 
fiction  than  a  living,  breathing,  vigorous  reality. — So 
strong,  indeed,  has  his  personality  been  made  mani 
fest,  that  many  times,  in  visionary  argument  with  the 
sturdy  old  myth  over  certain  changes  from  the 
original  forms  of  his  productions,  he  has  so  incon 
tinently  beaten  down  all  suggestions  as  to  a  less 
incongruous  association  of  thoughts  and  words,  to 
gether  with  protests  against  his  many  violations  of 
poetic  method,  harmony  and  grace,  that  nothing  was 
left  the  writer  but  to  submit  to  what  has  always 
seemed — and  in  truth  still  seems — a  superior  wisdom 
of  dictation. 

J.  W.  R. 

Indianapolis,  July  i8qr. 


CONTENTS 


PROEM— THE  DELIGHTS  OF  OUR  CHILDHOOD  is  SOON  PAST  AWAY 

THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE i 

THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER           ....  3 

A  SUMMER'S  DAY 5 

A  HYMB  OF  FAITH 8 

WORTER-MELON  TIME 10 

MY  PHILOSOFY 13 

WHEN  THE  FROST  is  ON  THE  PUNKIN 16 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT        .        .        .  18 

THE  MULBERRY  TREE 20 

To  MY  OLD  NEGHBOR,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN        ....  22 

MY  FIDDLE 26 

THE  CLOVER 28 

Us  FARMERS  IN  THE  COUNTRY,  AS  THE  SEASONS  GO  AND  COME         .  31 

ERASMUS  WILSON ,        .        .        .  33 

MY  RUTHERS 38 

To  A  DEAD  BABE 40 

A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG 41 

"COON-DOG  WESS" 44 

PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 50 

A  TALE  OF  THE  AIRLY  DAYS 53 

"MvLO  JONES'S  WIFE" 55 

ON  A  SPLENDUD  MATCH 58 

OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES 59 

THE  Hoss 64 

EZRA  HOUSE 68 

A  PEN-PICTUR'           71 

WET-WEATHER  TALK -75 

THOUGHTS  ON  A  PORE  JOKE 78 

A  MORTUL  PRAYER 79 

THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRD 81 

EVAGENE  BAKER 82 

ON  ANY  ORDENARY  MAN 85 

TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 86 

LINES  WRIT  PER  ISAAC  BRADWELL 88 

DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE .89 


'THE  OLD  SWIMMIN'-HOLE"  AND  'LEVEN  MORE  POEMS 


NEGHBORLY    POEMS 


THE  DELIGHTS  of  our  childhood  is  soon  passed  away, 

And  our  gloryus  youth  it  departs, — 
And yit,  dead  and  hurried,  t /ley's  blossoms  of  May 

Ore  theyr  medder land  graves  in  our  harts. 
So,  friends  of  my  barefooted  days  on  the  farm, 

Whether  truant  in  city  er  not, 
God  prosper  you  same  as  He's  prosper  in"1  me, 

Whilse  your  past  haint  despised  er  f  ergot. 

Oh  !  they's  MO thitt1 ,  at  morn,  that's  as  grand  unto  me 

As  the  glory s  of  Natchur  so  fare, — 
With  the  Spring  in  the  breeze,  and  the  bloom  in  the  trees, 

And  the  hum  of  the  bees  ev'rywhare  ! 
The  green  in  the  woods,  and  the  birds  in  the  boughs, 

And  the  dei.v  spangled  over  the  fields  ; 
And  the  bah  of  the  sheep  and  the  bawl  of  the  cows 

And  the  call  from  the  house  to  your  meals  ! 

Then  ho  !  fer  your  brekfast!  and  ho  !  fer  the  toil 

That  waitcth  alike  man  and  beast  ! 
Oh!  its  soon  with  my  team  I'll  be  tiirnin'  up  soil, 

Whilse  the  sun  shoulders  up  in  the  East 
Ore  the  tops  of  the  ellums  and  beeches  and  oaks, 

To  smile  his  godspeed  on  the  plow, 
And  the  furry  and  seed,  and  the  Man  in  his  need, 

And  the  joy  of  the  swet  of  his  brow  ! 


THE     OLD     SWIMMIN'-  HOLE     AND    'LEVEN 
MORE     POEMS. 


THE  OLD  SWIMMIN' -HOLE. 

OH!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!  whare  the  crick  so  still  and  deep 

Looked  like  a  baby-river  that  was  laying  half  asleep, 

And  the  gurgle  of  the  worter  round  the  drift  jest  below 

Sounded  like  the  laugh  of  something  we  onc't  ust  to  know 

Before  we  could  remember  anything  but  the  eyes 

Of  the  angels  lookin'  out  as  we  left  Paradise; 

But  the  merry  days  of  youth  is  beyond  our  controle, 

And  it's  hard  to  part  ferever  with  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!     In  the  happy  days  of  yore, 
When  I  ust  to  lean  above  it  on  the  old  sickamore, 
Oh!  it  showed  me  a  face  in  its  warm  sunny  tide 
That  gazed  back  at  me  so  gay  and  glorified, 
It  made  me  love  myself,  as  I  leaped  to  caress 
My  shadder  smilin'  up  at  me  with  such  tenderness. 
But  them  days  is  past  and  gone,  and  old  Time's  tuck  his  toll 
From  the  old  man  come  back  to  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 
*l  I 


THE  OLD  SWIMMING-HOLE. 


Oh!  the  old  swimmin'-hole!     In  the  long,  lazy  days 
When  the  hum-drum  of  school  made  so  many  run-a-ways, 
How  plesant  was  the  jurney  down  the  old  dusty  lane, 
Whare  the  tracks  of  our  bare  feet  was  all  printed  so  plane 
You  could  tell  by  the  dent  of  the  heel  and  the  sole 
They  was  lots  o'  fun  on  hands  at  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 
But  the  lost  joys  is  past !     Let  your  tears  in  sorrow  roll 
Like  the  rain  that  ust  to  dapple  up  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

Thare  the  bullrushes  growed,  and  the  cattails  so  tall, 
And  the  sunshine  and  shadder  fell  over  it  all; 
And  it  mottled  the  worter  with  amber  and  gold 
Tel  the  glad  lillies  rocked  in  the  ripples  that  rolled; 
And  the  snake-feeder's  four  gauzy  wings  fluttered  by 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  daisy  dropped  out  of  the  sky, 
Or  a  wownded  apple-blossom  in  the  breeze's  controle 
As  it  cut  acrost  some  orchurd  to'rds  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 

Oh !  the  old  swimmin'-hole !     When  I  last  saw  the  place, 
The  scenes  was  all  changed,  like  the  change  in  my  face; 
The  bridge  of  the  railroad  now  crosses  the  spot 
Whare  the  old  divin'-log  lays  sunk  and  fergot. 
And  I  stray  down  the  banks  whare  the  trees  ust  to  be — 
But  never  again  will  theyr  shade  shelter  me ! 
And  I  wish  in  my  sorrow  I  could  strip  to  the  soul, 
And  dive  off  in  my  grave  like  the  old  swimmin'-hole. 


THOUGHTS  PER  DISCURAGED  FARMER.     3 


THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER. 

THE  summer  winds  is  sniffin'  round  the  bloomin'  locus'  trees; 
And  the  clover  in  the  pastur'  is  a  big  day  fer  the  bees, 
And  they  been  a-swiggin  honey,  above  board  and  on  the  sly, 
Tel  they  stutter  in  theyrbuzzin'  and  stagger  as  they  fly. 
The  flicker  on  the  fence-rail  'pears  to  jest  spit  on  his  wings 
And  roll  up  his  feathers,  by  the  sassy  way  he  sings; 
And  the  hoss-fly  is  a-whettin'-up  his  forelegs  fer  biz, 
And  the  off-mare  is  a-switchin'  all  of  her  tale  they  is. 

You  can  hear  the  blackbirds  jawin'  as  they  foller  up  the  plow — 
Oh,  theyr  bound  to  git  theyr  brekfast,  and  theyr  not  a  carin' 

how; 

So  they  quarrel  in  the  furries,  and  they  quarrel  on  the  wing — 
But  theyr  peaceabler  in  pot-pies  than  any  other  thing: 
And  its  when  I  git  my  shotgun  drawed  up  in  stiddy  rest, 
She's  as  full  of  tribbelation  as  a  yeller-jacket's  nest; 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  the  sun's  a-shinin'  right, 
Seems  to  kindo-sorto  sharpen  up  a  feller's  appetite! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'  rain,  but  the  sun's  out  to-day, 

And  the  clouds  of  the  wet  spell  is  all  cleared  away, 

And  the  woods  is  all  the  greener,  and  the  grass  is  greener  still; 

It  may  rain  again  to-morry,  but  I  don't  think  it  will. 


4     THOUGHTS   PER  DISCURAGED  FARMER. 

Some  says  the  crops  is  ruined,  and  the  corn's  drownded  out, 
And  propha-sy  the  wheat  will  be  a  failure,  without  doubt; 
But  the  kind  Providence  that  has  never  failed  us  yet, 
Will  be  on  hands  onc't  more  at  the  'leventh  hour,  I  bet ! 

Does  the  medder-lark  complane,  as  he  swims  high  and  dry 
Through  the  waves  of  the  wind  and  the  blue  of  the  sky? 
Does  the  quail  set  up  and  whissel  in  a  disappinted  way, 
Er  hang  his  head  in  silunce,  and  sorrow  all  the  day? 
Is  the  chipmuck's  health  a-failin'?  Does  he  walk,  er  does  he  run? 
Don't    the  buzzards  ooze  around  up   thare  jest  like   they've 

allus  done? 

Is  they  anything  the  matter  with  the  rooster's  lungs  er  voice? 
Ort  a  mortul  be  complainin'  when  dumb  animals  rejoice? 

Then  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contented  with  our  lot; 

The  June  is  here  this  morning,  and  the  sun  is  shining  hot. 

Oh !  let  us  fill  our  harts  up  with  the  glory  of  the  day, 

And  banish  ev'ry  doubt  and  care  and  sorrow  fur  away! 

Whatever  be  our  station,  with  Providence  fer  guide, 

Sich  fine  circumstances  ort  to  make  us  satisfied; 

Fer  the  world  is  full  of  roses,  and  the  roses  full  of  dew, 

And  the  dew  is  full  of  heavenly  love  that  drips  fer  me  and  you. 


A  SUMMER'S   DAY. 


A   SUMMER'S   DAY. 

THE  Summer's  put  the  idy  in 
My  head  that  I'm  a  boy  again; 

And  all  around's  so  bright  and  gay 

I  want  to  put  my  team  away, 

And  jest  git  out  whare  I  can  lay 

And  soak  my  hide  full  of  the  day ! 
But  work  is  work,  and  must  be  done — 
Yit,   as  I  work,  I  have  my  fun, 
Jest  fancyin'  these  furries  here 
Is  childhood's  paths  onc't  more  so  dear  : — 
And  so  I  walk  through  medder-lands, 

And  country  lanes,  and  swampy  trails 
Whare  long  bullrushes  bresh  my  hands; 

And,  tilted  on  the  ridered  rails 

Of  deadnin'  fences,  "Old  Bob  White" 
Whissels  his  name  in  high  delight, 
And  whirrs  away.     I  wunder  still, 
Whichever  way  a  boy's  feet  will — 
Whare  trees  has  fell,  with  tangled  tops 

Whare  dead  leaves  shakes,  I  stop  fer  breth, 
Heerin'  the  acorn  as  it  drops — 

H'istin'  my  chin  up  still  as  deth, 
And  watchin'  clos't,  with  upturned  eyes, 
The  tree  whare  Mr.  Squirrel  tries 
To  hide  hisse'f  above  the  limb, 
But  lets  his  own  tale  tell  on  him. 


A   SUMMER'S  DAY. 


I  wnnder  on  in  deeper  glooms — 
Git  hungry,  hearin'  female  cries 

From  old  farm-houses,  whare  perfumes 
Of  harvest  dinners  seems  to  rise 

And  ta'nt  a  feller,  hart  and  brane, 

With  memories  he  can't  explain. 

I  wunder  through  the  underbresh, 

Whare  pig-tracks,  pintin'  to'rds  the  crick 

Is  picked  and  printed  in  the  fresh 

Black  bottom-lands,  like  wimmern  pick 

Theyr  pie-crusts  with  a  fork,  some  way, 

When  bakin'  fer  camp-meetin'  day. 

I  wunder  on  and  on  and  on, 

Tel  my  gray  hair  and  beard  is  gone, 

And  ev'ry  wrinkle  on  my  brow 

Is  rubbed  clean  out  and  shaddered  now 

With  curls  as  brown  and  fare  and  fine 

As  tenderls  of  the  wild  grape-vine 

That  ust  to  climb  the  highest  tree 

To  keep  the  ripest  ones  fer  me. 

I  wunder  still,  and  here  I  am 

Wadin'  the  ford  below  the  dam — 

The  worter  chucklin'  round  my  knee 

At  hornet-welt  and  bramble-scratch, 
And  me  a-slippin'  'crost  to  see 


A   SUMMER'S  DAY. 


Ef  Tyner's  plums  is  ripe,  and  size 
The  old  man's  \vortermelon-patch, 

With  juicy  mouth  and  drouthy  eyes. 
Then,  after  sich  a  day  of  mirth 
And  happiness  as  worlds  is  wurth — 

So  tired  that  heaven  seems  nigh  about, — 
The  sweetest  tiredness  on  earth 

Is  to  git  home  and  flatten  out — 
So  tired  you  can't  lay  flat  enugh, 
And  sort  o'  wish  that  you  could  spred 
Out  like  molasses  on  the  bed, 
And  jest  drip  off  the  aidges  in 
The  dreams  that  never  comes  again. 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH. 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH. 

O,  THOU  that  doth  all  things  devise 

And  fashon  fer  the  best, 
He'p  us  who  sees  with  mortul  eyes 

To  overlook  the  rest. 

They's  times,  of  course,  we  grope  in  doubt, 

And  in  afflictions  sore; 
So  knock  the  louder,  Lord,  without, 

And  we'll  unlock  the  door. 

Make  us  to  feel,  when  times  looks  bad 

And  tears  in  pitty  melts, 
Thou  wast  the  only  he'p  we  had 

When  they  was  nothin'  else. 

Death  comes  alike  to  ev'ry  man 
That  ever  was  borned  on  earth; 

Then  let  us  do  the  best  we  can 
To  live  fer  all  life's  wurth. 

Ef  storms  and  tempusts  dred  to  see 

Makes  black  the  heavens  ore, 
They  done  the  same  in  Galilee 

Two  thousand  years  before. 

But  after  all,  the  golden  sun 

Poured  out  its  floods  on  them 
That  watched  and  waited  fer  the  One 

Then  borned  in  Bethlyham. 


A  HYMB  OF  FAITH. 


Also,  the  star  of  holy  writ 

Made  noonday  of  the  night, 
Whilse  other  stars  that  looked  at  it 

Was  envious  with  delight. 

The  sages  then  in  wurship  bowed, 

From  ev'ry  clime  so  fare; 
O,  sinner,  think  of  that  glad  crowd 

That  congergated  thare! 

They  was  content  to  fall  in  ranks 
With  One  that  knowed  the  way 

From  good  old  Jurden's  stormy  banks 
Clean  up  to  Jedgmunt  Day. 

No  matter,  then,  how  all  is  mixed 

In  our  near-sighted  eyes, 
All  things  is  fer  the  best,  and  fixed 

Out  straight  in  Paradise. 

Then  take  things  as  God  sends  'em  here, 

And,  ef  we  live  er  die, 
Be  more  and  more  contenteder, 

Without  a-astin'  why. 

O,  thou  that  doth  all  things  devise 

And  fashon  fer  the  best, 
He'p  us  who  sees  with  mortul  eyes. 

To  overlook  the  rest. 


WORTER-MELON  TIME. 


WORTER-MELON  TIME. 

OLD  worter-melon  time  is  a-comin' round  again, 
And  they  ain't  no  man  a-livin'  any  tickleder'n  me, 

Fer  the  way  I  hanker  after  worter-melons  is  a  sin — 

Which  is  the  why  and  wharefore,   as  you  can  plainly  see. 

Oh!  it's  in  the  sandy  soil  worter-melons  does  the  best, 

And  its  thare  they'll  lay  and  waller  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
dew 

Till  they  wear  all  the  green  streaks  clean  off  of  theyr  breast; 
And  you  bet  I  ain't  a-findin'  any  fault  with  them;  air  you? 

They  ain't  no  better  thing  in  the  vegetable  line; 

And  they  don't  need  much  'tendin',  as  ev'ry  farmer  knows; 
And  when  theyr  ripe  and  ready  fer  to  pluck  from  the  vine, 

I  want  to  say  to  you  theyr  the  best  fruit  that  grows. 

It's  some  likes  the  yeller-core,  and  some  likes  the  red, 
And  it's  some  says  "The  little  Californy"  is  the  best; 

But  the  sweetest  slice  of  all  I  ever  wedged  in  my  head, 
Is  the  old  "Edingburg  Mounting-sprout,"  of  the  west. 

You  don't  want  no  punkins  nigh  your  worter-melon  vines — 
'Cause,  some-way-another,  they'll  spile  your  melons,  shore; — 

I've  seed  'em  taste  like  punkins,  from  the  core  to  the  rines, 
Which  may  be  a  fact  you  have  heered  of  before. 


WORTER-MELON  TIME.  n 


But  your  melons  that's  raised  right  and  'tended  to  with  care, 
You  can  walk  around  amongst  'em  with  a  parent's  pride 
and  joy, 

And  thump  'em  on  the  heads  with  as  fatherly  a  air 
As  ef  each  one  of  them  was  your  little  girl  er  boy. 

I  joy  in  my  hart  jest  to  hear  that  rippin'  sound 

When  you  split  one  down   the  back  and  jolt  the  halves  in 

two, 

And  the  friends  you  love  the  best  is  gethered  all  around — 
And  you  says  unto  your  sweethart,  "Oh  here's  the  core  fer 
you!" 

And  I  like  to  slice  'em  up  in  big  pieces  fer  'em  all, 
Espeshally  the  childern,  and  watch  theyr  high  delight 

As  one  by  one  the  rines  with  theyr  pink  notches  falls, 

And  they  holler  fer  some  more,  with  unquenched  appetite. 

Boys  takes  to  it  natchurl,  and  I  like  to  see  'em  eat — 

A  slice  of  worter-melon's  like  a  frenchharp  in  theyr  hands, 
And  when  they  "saw"  it  through  theyr  mouth  sich  music  can't 

be  beat — 

'Cause  it's  music  both  the  sperit  and  the  stummick  under 
stands. 

Oh,  they's  more  in  worter-melons  than  the  purty-colored  meat, 
And  the  overflowin'  sweetness  of  the  worter   squshed  be 
twixt 


WORTER-MELON   TIME. 


The  up'ard  and  the  down'ard  motions  of  a  feller's  teeth, 
And  it's   the  taste   of  ripe  old  age   and  juicy    childhood 
mixed. 

Fer  I  never  taste  a  melon  but  my  thoughts  flies  away 
To  the  summertime  of  youth;  and  again  I  see  the  dawn, 

And  the  fadin'  afternoon  of  the  long  summer  day, 

And  the  dusk  and  dew  a-fallin',  and  the  night  a-comin'  on. 

And  thare's  the  corn  around   us,    and  the   lispin'    leaves  and 
trees. 

And  the  stars  a-peekin'  down  on  us  as  still  as  silver  mice, 
And  us  boys  in  the  worter-melons  on  our  hands  and  knees, 

And  the  new-moon  hangin'  ore  us  like  a  yeller-cored  slice. 

Oh !  it's  worter-melon  time  is  a-comin'  round  again, 
And  they  ain't  no  man  a-livin'  any  tickleder'n  me, 

Fer  the  way  I  hanker  after  worter-melons  is  a  sin — 

Which  is  the  why  and  wharefore,  as  you  can  plainly  see. 


MY  PHILOSOFY. 


MY  PHILOSOFY. 

I  AINT,  ner  don't  p'tend  to  be, 
Much  posted  on  philosofy; 
But  thare  is  times,  when  all  alone, 
I  work  out  idees  of  my  own. 
And  of  these  same  thare  is  a  few 
I'd  like  to  jest  refer  to  you — 
Pervidin'  that  you  don't  object 
To  listen  clos't  and  rickollect. 

I  allus  argy  that  a  man 
Who  does  about  the  best  he  can 
Is  plenty  good  enugh  to  suit 
This  lower  mundane  institute — 
No  matter  ef  his  daily  walk 
Is  subject  fer  his  neghbor's  talk, 
And  critic-minds  of  ev'ry  whim 
Jest  all  git  up  and  go  fer  him ! 

I  knowed  a  feller  onc't  that  had 
The  yeller-janders  mighty  bad, 
And  each  and  ev'ry  friend  he'd  meet 
Would  stop  and  give  him  some  receet 
Fer  cuorin'  of  'em.     But  he'd  say 
He  kind  o'  thought  they'd  go  away 
Without  no  medicin',  and  boast 
That  he'd  git  well  without  one  doste. 


14  MY  PHI  LOS  OF  Y. 

He  kep'  a  yellerin'  on — and  they 
Perdictin'  that  he'd  die  some  day 
Before  he  knowed  it !     Tuck  his  bed, 
The  feller  did,  and  lost  his  head, 
And  wundered  in  his  mind  a  spell — 
Then  rallied,  and,  at  last,  got  well; 
But  ev'ry  friend  that  said  he'd  die 
Went  back  on  him  eternally ! 

Its  natchurl  enugh,  I  guess, 

When  some  gits  more  and  some  gits  less, 

Fer  them-uns  on  the  slimmest  side 

To  claim  it  ain't  a  fare  divide; 

And  I've  knowed  some  to  lay  and  wait, 

And  git  up  soon,  and  set  up  late. 

To  ketch  some  feller  they  could  hate 

Fer  goin'  at  a  faster  gait. 

The  signs  is  bad  when  folks  commence 

A  findin'  fault  with  Providence, 

And  balkin'  'cause  the  earth  don't  shake 

At  ev'ry  prancin'  step  they  take. 

No  man  is  great  tel  he  can  see 

How  less  than  little  he  would  be 

Ef  stripped  to  self,  and  stark  and  bare 

He  hung  his  sign  out  anywhare. 


MY  PHILOSOFY. 


My  doctern  is  to  lay  aside 

Contensions,  and  be  satisfied: 

Jest  do  your  best,  and  praise  er  blame 

That  Toilers  that,  counts  jest  the  same. 

I've  allus  noticed  grate  success 

Is  mixed  with  troubles,  more  er  less, 

And  its  the  man  who  does  the  best 

That  gits  more  kicks  than  all  the  rest. 


16     WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNKIN. 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNKIN. 

WHEN  the  frost  is   on  the   punkin  and   the  fodder's   in  the 

shock, 

And  you  hear  the  kyouck  and  gobble  of  the  struttin'  turkey- 
cock, 

And  the  clackin'of  the  guineys,  and  the   cluckin'  of  the  hens, 
And  the  rooster's  hallylooyer  as  he  tiptoes  on  the  fence; 
O  its  then's  the  times  a  feller  is  a-feelin'  at  his  best, 
With  the  risin'  sun  to  greet  him  from  a  night  of  peaceful  rest, 
As  he  leaves  the  house,  bare-headed,  and  goes  out   to  feed  the 

stock, 

When  the  frost   is   on   the   punkin   and   the   fodder's  in  the 
shock. 

They's  something  kindo'  harty-like  about  the  atmosfere 
When  the  heat  of  summer's  over  and  the  coolin'  fall  is  here — 
Of  course  we  miss  the  flowers,  and  the  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
And  the  mumble  of  the  hummin' -birds    and   buzzin'  of  the 

bees; 
But   the  air's  so  appetizin';   and   the  landscape  through  the 

haze 

Of  a  crisp  and  sunny  morning  of  the  airly  autumn  days 
Is  a  pictur'  that  no  painter  has  the  colorin'  to  mock — 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the  shock. 


"C 
7? 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUN  KIN.     17 

The  husky,  rusty  russel  of  the  tossels  of  the  corn, 
And  the  raspin  of  the  tangled  leaves,  as  golden  as  the  morn; 
The  stubble  in  the  furries — kindo'  lonesome-like,  but  still 
A-preachin'  sermuns  to  us  of  the  barns  they  growed  to  fill; 
The  strawstack  in  the  medder,  and  the  reaper  in  the  shed; 
The  hosses  in  theyr  stalls  below — the  clover  overhead ! — 
O,  it  sets  my  hart  a-clickin'  like  the  tickin'  of  a  clock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the  shock ! 

Then  your  apples  all  is  getherd,  and  the  ones  a  feller  keeps 
Is  poured  around  the  celler-floor  in  red  and  yeller  heaps; 
And  your   cider-makin's  over,    and  your  wimmern-folks   is 

through 
With   their   mince   and  apple-butter,    and  theyr   souse   and 

saussage,  too; — 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it — but  ef  sich  a  thing  could  be 
As  the  Angels  wantin'  boardin',  and  they'd  call  around  on 

me — 

I'd  want  to  'commodate  'em — all  the  whole-indurin'  flock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the  shock ! 


i8  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  MAHALA  ASHCRAFT. 

"LITTLE  HALY!     Little  Haly!"  cheeps  the  robin  in  the  tree; 
"Little  Haly!"  sighs  the  clover,   "Little  Haly!"  moans  the 

bee; 

"Little  Haly!     Little  Haly!"  calls  the  kill-deer  at  twilight; 
And  the  katydids  and  crickets  hollers  "Haly"  all  the  night. 

The  sunflowers  and  the  hollyhawks  droops  over   the  garden 

fence; 
The  old  path  down  the  gardenwalks  still  holds  her  footprints' 

dents; 
And  the  well-sweep's  swingin'  bucket  seems  to  wait  fer  her  to 

come 
And  start  it  on  its  wortery  errant  down  the  old  bee-gum. 

The  bee-hives  all  is  quiet,  and  the  little  Jersey  steer, 
When  any  one  comes  nigh  it,  acts  so  lonesome  like  and  queer; 
And  the  little  Banty  chickens  kind  o'  cutters  faint  and  low, 
Like  the  hand  that  now  was  feedin'  'em  was  one  they  didn't 
know. 


LITTLE  MAHAL  A  ASHCRAFT.  19 

They's  sorrow  in  the  wavin'  leaves  of  all  the  apple-trees; 
And  sorrow  in  the  harvest-sheaves,  and  sorrow  in  the  breeze; 
And  sorrow  in  the  twitter  of  the  swallers  'round  the  shed; 
And  all  the  song  her  red-bird  sings  is  "Little  Haly's  dead !" 

The  medder  'pears  to  miss  her,  and  the  pathway  through  the 

grass, 
Whare  the  dewdrops  ust  to  kiss  her  little  bare  feet  as  she 

passed; 

And  the  old  pin  in  the  gate-post  seems  to  kindo-sorto'  doubt 
That  Haly's  little  sunburnt  hands'll  ever  pull  it  out. 

Did  her  father  er  her  mother  ever  love  her  more'n  me, 
Er  her  sisters  er  her  brother  prize  her  love  more  tendurly? 
I  question — and  what  answer? — only  tears,  and  tears  alone, 
And  ev'ry  neghbor's  eyes  is  full  o'  tear-drops  as  my  own. 

"Little  Haly !     Little  Haly !"  cheeps  the  robin  in  the  tree; 
"Little  Haly!"  sighs  the  clover,  "Little  Haly !" moans  the  bee; 
"Little  Haly !  Little  Haly !"  calls  the  kill-deer  at  twilight, 
And  the  katydids  and  crickets  hollers  "Haly"  all  the  night. 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE, 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE. 

O,  ITS  many's  the  scenes  which  is  dear  to  my  mind 

As  I  think  of  my  childhood  so  long  left  behind; 

The  home  of  my  birth,  with  its  old  puncheon-floor, 

And  the  bright  morning-glorys  that  growed  round  the  door; 

The  warped  clab-board  roof  whare  the  rain  it  run  off 

Into  streams  of  sweet  dreams  as  I  laid  in  the  loft, 

Countin'  all  of  the  joys  that  was  dearest  to  me, 

And  a-thinkin'  the  most  of  the  mulberry  tree. 

And  to-day  as  I  dream,  with  both  eyes  wide-awake, 
I  can  see  the  old  tree,  and  its  limbs  as  they  shake, 
And  the  long  purple  berries  that  rained  on  the  ground 
Whare  the  pastur'  was  bald  whare  we  trommpt  it  around. 
And  again,  peekin'  up  through  the  thick  leafy  shade, 
I  can  see  the  glad  smiles  of  the  friends  when  I  strayed 
With  my  little  bare  feet  from  my  own  mother's  knee 
To  foller  them  off  to  the  mulberry  tree. 

Leanin'  up  in  the  forks,  I  can  see  the  old  rail, 

And  the  boy  climbin'  up  it,  claw,  tooth,  and  toe-nail, 

And  in  fancy  can  hear,  as  he  spits  on  his  hands, 

The  ring  of  his  laugh  and  the  rip  of  his  pants. 

But  that  rail  led  to  glory,  as  certin  and  shore 

As  I'll  never  climb  thare  by  that  rout'  any  more — 

What  was  all  the  green  lauruls  of  Fame  unto  me, 

With  my  brows  in  the  boughs  of  the  mulberry  tree! 


THE  MULBERRY  TREE. 


Then  its  who  can  fergit  the  old  mulberry  tree 

That  he  knowed  in  the  days  when  his  thoughts  was  as  free 

As  the  flutterin'  wings  of  the  birds  that  flew  out 

Of  the  tall  wavin'  tops  as  the  boys  come  about? 

O,  a  crowd  of  my  memories,  laughin'  and  gay, 

Is  a-climbin'  the  fence  of  that  pastur'  to-day, 

And  a-pantin'  with  joy,  as  us  boys  ust  to  be, 

They  go  racin'  acrost  fer  the  mulberry  tree. 


22  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN. 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND,  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN. 

FER  forty  year  and  better  you  have  been  a  friend  to  me, 

Through  days  of  sore  afflictions  and  dire  adversity, 

You  allus  had  a  kind  word  of  counsul  to  impart, 

Which  was  like  a  healin'  'intment  to  the  sorrow  of  my  hart. 

When  I  hurried  my  first  womern,   William  Leachman,  it  was 

you 

Had  the  only  consolation  that  I  could  listen  to — 
Fer  I  knowed  you  had  gone  through  it  and  had  rallied  from 

the  blow, 
And  when  you  said  I'd  do  the  same,   I   knowed  you'd  ort  to 

know. 

But  that  time  I'll  long  remember;  how  I   wundered  here  and 

thare — 
Through  the  settin'-room  and   kitchen,  and    out    in  the  open 

air — 
And  the  snowflakes  whirlin',  whirlin',   and  the  fields  a  frozen 

glare, 
And  the  neghbors'  sleds  and  wagons   congergatin'  ev'rywhare. 

I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  heaven,  but  the  sun  was  hid  away; 
I  turned  my  eyes  to'rds  earth  again,  but  all  was  cold  and  gray; 
And  the  clock,  like  ice  a-crackin',  clickt  the  icy  hours   in 

two — 
And  my  eyes'd  never  thawed  out  ef  it  hadn't  been  fer  you! 


WILLIAM  LEACHMAN.  23 

We  set   thare  by  the  smoke-house — me  and  you  out  thare 

alone — 

Me  a-thinkin' — you  a-talkin'  in  a  soothin'  undertone — 
You  a-talkin' — me  a-thinkin'  of  the  summers  long  ago, 
And  a-writin'  "Marthy—  Marthy"  with  my  finger  in  the  snow! 

William  Leachman,  I  can  see  you  jest  as  plane  as  I  could  then; 
And  your  hand  is  on  my  shoulder,  and  you  rouse  me  up  again; 
And  I  see  the  tears  a-drippin'  from  your  own  eyes,  as  you  say: 
"Be  rickonciled  and  bear  it — we  but  linger  fer  a  day!" 

At  the  last  Old  Settlers'    Meetin'  we   went   j'intly,  you  and 

me — 

Your  hosses  and  my  wagon,  as  you  wanted  it  to  be; 
And  sence  I  can  remember,  from  the  time  we've  neghbored 

here, 
In  all  sich  friendly  actions  you  have  double-done  your  sheer. 

It  was  better  than  the  meetin',  too,  that  g-mile  talk  we  had 
Of  the  times  when  we  first  settled  here  and  travel  was  so  bad; 
When  we  had  to  go  on  hoss-back,  and  sometimes  on  "Shanks's 

mare," 
And  "blaze"  a  road  fer  them  behind  that  had  to  travel  thare. 

And  now  we  was  a-trottin'  'long  a  level  gravel  pike, 
In  a  big  two-hoss  road-wagon,  jest  as  easy  as  you  like — 
Two  of  us  on  the  front  seat,  and  our  wimmern-folks  behind, 
A-settin'  in  theyr  Winsor  cheers  in  perfect  peace  of  mind! 


24  WILLIAM  LEACHMAN. 

And  we  pinted  out  old  landmarks,  nearly  faded  out  of  sight: — 
Thare  they  ust  to  rob  the  stage-coach;  thare  Gash  Morgan 

had  the  fight 
With  the  old  stag-deer  that  pronged  him — how  he  battled  fer 

his  life, 
And  lived  to  prove  the  story  by  the  handle  of  his  knife. 

Thare  the  first  griss-mill  was  put  up  in  the  Settlement,  and  we 
Had  tuck  our  grindin'  to  it  in  the  Fall  of  Forty-three — 
When  we  tuck  our  rifles  with  us,  techin'  elbows  all  the  way, 
And  a-stickin'  right  together  ev'ry  minute,  night  and  day. 

Thare  ust  to  stand  the  tavern  that  they  called  the  "Travelers' 

Rest," 
And  thare,  beyent  the  covered   bridge,    "The  Counterfitters' 

Nest" — 
Whare  they  claimed  the  house  was  ha'nted  —  that  a  man  was 

murdered  thare, 
And  burried  underneath  the  floor,  er  'round  the  place  some- 

whare. 

And  the  old  Plank-road  they  laid  along  in   Fifty-one  er  two — 
You  know  we  talked  about  the  times  when  the  old  road  was 

new: 
How  "Uncle  Sam"  put  down  that  road  and  never  taxed  the 

State 
Was  a  problum,  don't  you  rickollect,  we  couldn't  dimonstrate? 


And  thare,  beyent  the  covered  bridge,  "  The  Counterfitters'  Nest." 


WILLIAM  LEACHMAN.  25 

Ways  was  devius,  William  Leachman,   that  me  and  you  has 

past; 

But  as  I  found  you  true  at  first,  I  find  you  true  at  last; 
And,  now  the  time's  a-comin'  mighty  nigh  our  jurney's  end, 
I  want  to  throw  wide  open  all  my  soul  to  you,  my  friend. 

With  the  stren'th  of  all  my  bein',  and  the  heat   of  hart  and 

brane, 

And  ev'ry  livin'  drop  of  blood  in  artery  and  vane, 
I  love  you  and  respect  you,  and  I  venerate  your  name, 
Fer  the  name  of  William  Leachman  and  True  Manhood's  jest 

the  same ! 


26  MY  FIDDLE. 


MY  FIDDLE. 

MY  FIDDLE? — Well,  I   kindo'   keep   her   handy,   don't  you 

know! 
Though  I    aint  so  much   inclined   to    tromp    the  strings  and 

switch  the  bow 

As  I  was  before  the  timber  of  my  elbows  got  so  dry, 
And  my  fingers  was  more  limber-like  and  caperish  and  spry; 
Yit  I  can  plonk  and  plunk  and  plink, 

And  tune  her  up  and  play, 
And  jest  lean  back  and  laugh  and  wink 
At  ev'ry  rainy  day ! 

My  playin's  only  middlin' — tunes  I  picked  up  when  a  boy — 
The  kindo'-sorto'  fiddlin'    that  the  folks  calls  "cordaroy;" 
"The  Old  Fat  Gal,"  and  "Rye-straw,"  and  "My  Sailyor's  on 

the  Sea," 

Is  the  old  cowtillions  /  "saw"  when  the  ch'ice  is  left  to  me; 
And  so  I  plunk  and  plonk  and  plink, 

And  rosum-up  my  bow, 
And  play  the  tunes  that  makes  you  think 
The  devil's  in  your  toe! 


MY  FIDDLE.  27 


I  was  allus  a  romancin',  do-less  boy,  to  tell  the  truth, 
A-fiddlin'  and  a-dancin',  and  a-wastin'  of  my  youth, 
And  a-actin'  and  a-cuttin'-up  all  sorts  o'  silly  pranks 
That  wasn't  worth  a  button  of  anybody's  thanks! 
But  they  tell  me,  when  I  ust  to  plink 

And  plonk  and  plunk  and  play, 
My  music  seemed  to  have  the  kink 
O'  drivin'  cares  away! 

That's  how  this  here  old  fiddle's  won  my  hart's  indurin  love ! 
From  the  strings  acrost  her  middle,  to  the  schreechin'  keys 

above — 
From  her  "apern,"  over  "bridge,"  and  to  the  ribbon  round  her 

throat, 

She's  a  wooin',  cooin'  pigeon,  singin'  "Love  me"  ev'ry  note! 
And  so  I  pat  her  neck,  and  plink 
Her  strings  with  lovin'  hands, 
And,  list'nin'  clos't,  I  sometimes  think 
She  kindo'  understands ! 


28  THE  CLOVER. 


THE  CLOVER. 

SOME  sings  of  the  lilly,  and  daisy,  and  rose, 

And  the  pansies  and  pinks  that  the  Summertime  throws 

In  the  green  grassy  lap  of  the  medder  that  lays 

Blinkin'  up  at  the  skyes  through  the  sunshiney  days; 

But  what  is  the  lilly  and  all  of  the  rest 

Of  the  flowers,  to  a  man  with  a  hart  in  his  brest 

That  was  dipped  brimmin'  full  of  the  honey  and  dew 

Of  the  sweet  clover-blossoms  his  babyhood  knew? 

I  never  set  eyes  on  a  clover-field  now, 

Er  fool  round  a  stable,  er  climb  in  the  mow, 

But  my  childhood  comes  back  jest  as  clear  and  as  plane 

As  the  smell  of  the  clover  I'm  sniffin'  again; 

And  I  wunder  away  in  a  bare-footed  dream, 

Whare  I  tangle  my  toes  in  the  blossoms  that  gleam 

With  the  dew  of  the  dawn  of  the  morning  of  love 

Ere  it  wept  ore  the  graves  that  I'm  weepin'  above. 

And  so  I  love  clover — it  seems  like  a  part 
Of  the  sacerdest  sorrows  and  joys  of  my  hart ; 
And  wharever  it  blossoms,  oh,  thare  let  me  bow 
And  thank  the  good  God  as  I'm  thankin'  Him  now; 
And  I  pray  to  Him  still  fer  the  stren'th  when  I  die, 
To  go  out  in  the  clover  and  tell  it  good-bye, 
And  lovin'ly  nestle  my  face  in  its  bloom 
While  my  soul  slips  away  on  a  breth  of  purfume. 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS 

ON   FRIENDSHIP,  GRIEF    AND   FARM-LIFE 


US  FARMERS  in  the  country,  as  the  seasons  go  and  come, 
Is  purty  much  like  other  folks, — -we're  apt  to  grumble  some! 
The  Spring's  too  backward fer  us,  er  too  forward — ary  one — 
We'll  jaw  about  it  anyhow,  and  have  our  way  er  none  ! 
The  thaw's  set  in  too  suddent;  er  the  frost's  stayed  in  the  soil 
Too  long  to  give  the  wheat  a  chance,  and  crops  is  bound  to  spoil! 
The  weather's  either  most  too  mild,  er  too  outrageous  rough, 
And  altogether  too  much  rain,  er  not  half  rain  enugh! 

Now  what  I'd  like  and  what  you'd  like  is  plane  enugh  to  see: 
Its  Jest  to  have  old  Providence  drop  round  on  you  and  me 
And  ast  us  what  our  views  is  first,  regardin'  shine  er  rain, 
And  post  'em  when  to  shet  her  off,  er  let  her  on  again  ! 
And yit  I'd  ruther,  after  all — considern  other  chores 
r  got  on  hands,  a'-tendin'  both  to  my  affairs  and  yours — 
I'd  rut  her  miss  the  blame  I'd  git,  a-rulin'  things  up  thare, 
And  spend  my  extry  time  in  praise  and  gratitude  and  prayer. 


ERASMUS  WILSON.  33 


ERASMUS  WILSON. 

'RAS  WILSON,  I  respect  you,  'cause 
You're  common,  like  you  allus  was 
Afore  you  went  to  town  and  s'prised 
The  world  by  gittin'  "reckonized," 
And  yit  perservin,  as  I  say, 
Your  common  hoss-sense  ev'ryway ! 
And  when  that  name  o'  yourn  occurs 
On  hand-bills,  er  in  newspapers, 
Er  letters  writ  by  friends  'at  ast 
About  you,  same  as  in  the  past, 
And  neghbors  and  relations  'low 
You're  out  o'  the  tall  timber  now, 
And  "gittin'  thare"  about  as  spry's 
The  next ! — as  /  say,  when  my  eyes, 
Er  ears,  lights  on  your  name,  I  mind 
The  first  time 'at  I  come  to  find 
You — and  my  Rickollection  yells, 
Jest  jubilunt  as  old  sleigh-bells — 
"  'Ras  Wilson!  Say!  Hold  up!  and  shake 
A  paw,  fer  old  acquaintance  sake !'' 


34  ERASMUS  WILSON. 

My  Rickollection,  more'n  like, 

Haint  overly  too  apt  to  strike 

That  what's-called  cultchurd  public  eye 

As  wisclum  of  the  deepest  dye, — 

And  yit  my  Rickollection  makes 

So  blame  lots  fewer  bad  mistakes, 

Regardin'  human-natchur'  and 

The  fellers  'at  I've  shook  theyr  hand, 

Than  my  best  jedgennmfs  done,  the  day 

I've  met  'em — 'fore  I  got  away, — 

'At — Well,  'Ras  Wilson,  let  me  grip 

Your  hand  in  warmest  pardnership ! 

Dad-burn  ye! — Like  to  jest  haul  back 
A'  old  flat-hander,  jest  che- whack ! 
And  take  you  'twixt  the  shoulders,  say, 
Sometime  you're  lookin'  t'other  way! — 
Er,  maybe  whilse  you're  speakin'  to 
A  whole  blame  Courthouse-full  o'  'thu- 
Syastic  friends,  I'd  like  to  jest 
Come  in-like  and  break  up  the  nest 
Afore  you  hatched  anuther  cheer, 
And  say:  "  'Ras,  /can't  stand  hitched  here 
All  night — ner  wouldn't  ef  I  could! — 
But  Little  Bethel  neghborhoocl, 
You  ust  to  live  at,  's  sent  some  word 
Fer  you,  ef  ary  chance  occurred 


ERASMUS  WILSON.  35 

To  git  it  to  ye, — so  ef  you 

Kin  stop,  I'm  wait  in'  fer  ye  to!" 

You're  common  as  I  said  afore — 
You're  common,  yit  uncommon  more. — 
You  allus  kindo'  'pear,  to  me, 
What  all  mankind  had  ort  to  be — 
Jest  natehnrl,  and  the  more  hurraws 
You  git,  the  less  you  know  the  cause — 
Like  as  ef  God  Hisself  stood  by, 
Where  best  on  earth  hain't  half  knee-high, 
And  seein'  like,  and'  knowin'  He 
'S  the  Only  Great  Man  really, 
You're  jest  content  to  size  your  hight 
With  any  feller-man's  in  sight. — 
And  even  then  they's  scrubs,  like  me, 
Feels  stuck-up,  in  your  company ! 

Like  now: — I  want  to  go  with  you 

Plum  out  o'  town  a  mile  er  two 

Clean  past  the  Fair-ground  whare's  some  hint 

O'  pennyrile  er  peppermint, 

And  bottom-lands,  and  timber  thick 

Enugh  to  sorto'  shade  the  crick ! 

I  want  to  see  you — want  to  set 

Down  somers,  whare  the  grass  hain't  wet, 


36  ERASMUS  WILSON. 

And  kindo'  breathe  you,  like  puore  air — 
And  taste  o'  your  tobacker  thare, 
And  talk  and  chaw !     Talk  o'  the  birds 
We've  knocked  with  cross-bows. — Afterwards 
Drop,  mayby,  into  some  dispute 
'Bout  "pomgrannies,"  er  cal'mus-root — 
And  how  they  growed,  and  whore? — on  tree 
Er  vine  ? — Who's  best  boy-memory ! — 
And  wasn't  it  gingsang,  insted 
O'  Cal'mus-root,  growed  like  you  said? — 
Er  how  to  tell  a  coon-track  from 
A  mussrat's ;  — er  how  milksick  come — 
Er  ef  ccrws  brung  it  ? — Er  why  now 
We  never  see  no  "muley"-cow — 
Ner  "frizzly"-chicken — ner  no  "clay- 
Bank"  mare — ner  nothin'  thataway! — 
And  what's  come  o'  the  yeller-core 
Old  wortermelons  ? — hain't  no  more. — 
Tomattusus,  the  same — all  red- 
Uns  nowadays — All  past  joys  fled — 
Each  and  all  jest  gone  k- whizz ! 
Like  our  days  o'  childhood  is ! 

Dag-gone  it,  Ras!  they  hain't  no  friend, 
It  'pears-like,  left  to  comperhend 
Sich  things  as  these  but  you,  and  see 
How  dratted  sweet  they  air  to  me ! 


ERASMUS  WILSON.  37 

But  you,  'at's  loved  'em  alias,  and 
Kin  sort  'em  out  and  understand 
'Em,  same  as  the  fine  books  you've  read, 
And  all  fine  thoughts  you've  writ,  er  said, 
Er  worked  out,  through  long  nights  o'  rain, 
And  doubts  and  fears,  and  hopes,  again, 
As  bright  as  morning  when  she  broke, — 
You  know  a  teardrop  from  a  joke ! 

And  so,  'Ras  Wilson,  stop  and  shake 

A  paw,  fer  old  acquaintance  sake ! 


38  MY  RUTHERS. 


MY  RUTHERS. 

[Writ  durin'  State  Fair  at  Indanoplis,  whilse  visitin'  a  Soninlaw 
then  residin'  thare,  who  has  sence  got  back  to  the  country  whare 
he  says  a  man  that's  raised  thare  ort  to  a-stayed  in  the  first  place.] 

I  tell  you  what  I'd  ruther  do — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, — 
I'd  ruther  work  when  I  wanted  to 
Than  be  bossed  round  by  others; — 
I'd  ruther  kindo'  git  the  swing 
O'  what  was  needed,  first,  I  jing! 
Afore  I  rwet  at  anything! — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers; — 
In  fact    I'd  aim  to  be  the  same 
With  all  men  as  my  brothers; 
And  they'd  all  be  the  same  with  me — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 

I  wouldn't  likely  know  it  all — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers; — 
I'd  know  some  sense,  and  some  base-ball — 
Some  old  jokes,  and — some  others: 
I'd  know  some  politics,  and  'low 
Some  tarif-speeches  same  as  now, 
Then  go  hear  Nye  on  "Branes  and  How 
To  Detect  Theyr  Presence."   T' others, 
That  stayed  away,  I'd  let  'em  stay — 
All  my  dissentin'  brothers 


MY  RUTHERS.  39 


Could  clause  as  shore  a  kill  er  cuore, 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 

The  pore  'ud  git  theyr  dues  sometimes — 

Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, — 
And  be  paid  dollars  'stid  o'  dimes, 
Fer  childern,  wives  and  mothers: 

Theyr  boy  that  slaves;  theyr  girl  that  sews- 
Fer  others — not  herself,  God  knows!  — 
The  grave's  her  only  change  of  clothes! 
. . .  Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, 
They'd  all  have  "stuff"  and  time  enugh 

To  answer  one-another's 
Appealin'  prayer  fer  "lovin'  care" — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 

They'd  be  few  folks  'ud  ast  fer  trust, 

Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, 
And  blame  few  business-men  to  bu'st 
Theyrselves,  er  harts  of  others: 

Big  Guns  that  come  here  durin'  Fair- 
Week  could  put  up  jest  anywhare, 
And  find  a  full-and-plenty  thare, 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers: 
The  rich  and  great  'ud  'sociate 

With  all  theyr  lowly  brothers, 
Feelin'  we  done  the  honorun — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 


40  ON  A  DEAD  BABE. 


ON  A  DEAD  BABE. 

FLY  away !  thou  heavenly  one ! — 

I  do  hail  thee  on  thy  flight ! 
Sorrow?  thou  hath  tasted  none — 
Perfect  joy  is  yourn  by  right. 
Fly  away !  and  bear  our  love 
To  thy  kith  and  kin  above ! 

I  can  tetch  thy  finger-tips 

Ca'mly,  and  bresh  back  the  hair 
From  thy  forr'ed  with  my  lips, 
And  not  leave  a  teardrop  thare. — 

Weep  fer  Tomps  and  Ruth — and  me- 
But  I  cannot  weep  fer  thee. 


A   OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG.  41 


A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG. 

IT'S  THE  curiousest  thing  in  creation, 

Whenever  I  hear  that  old  song, 
"Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home,"  I'm  so  bothered, 

My  life  seems  as  short  as  it's  long! — 
Fer  ev'rything  'pears  like  adzackly 

It  'peared  in  the  years  past  and  gone, — 
When  I  started  out  sparkin'  at  twenty, 

And  had  my  first  neckercher  on ! 

Though  I'm  wrinkelder,  older  and  grayer 

Right  now  than  my  parents  was  then, 
You  strike  up  that  song,  "Do  They  Miss  Me," 

And  I'm  jest  a  youngster  again! — 
I'm  a-standin'  back  thare  in  the  furries 

A-wishin'  fer  evening  to  come, 
And  a-whisperin'  over  and  over 

Them  words,  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 

You  see,  Marthy  Ellen  she  sung  it 

The  first  time  I  heerd  it;  and  so, 
As  she  was  my  very  first  sweethart, 

It  reminds  me  of  her,  don't  you  know; — 


42  A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG. 

How  her  face  ust  to  look,  in  the  twilight, 
As  I  tuck  her  to  Spellin';  and  she 

Kep'  a-hummin'  that  song  tel  I  ast  her, 
Pine-blank,  ef  she  ever  missed  me  \ 

I  can  shet  my  eyes  now,  as  you  sing  it, 

And  hear  her  low  answerin'  words; 
And  then  the  glad  chirp  of  the  crickets, 

As  clear  as  the  twitter  of  birds; 
And  the  dust  in  the  road  is  like  velvet, 

And  the  ragweed  and  fennel  and  grass 
Is  as  sweet  as  the  scent  of  the  lillies 

Of  Eden  of  old,  as  we  pass. 

"Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?'"  Sing  it  lower- 

And  softer — and  sweet  as  the  breeze 
That  powdered  our  path  with  the  snowy 

White  bloom  of  the  old  locus'-trees! 
Let  the  whipperwills  he'p  you  to  sing  it, 

And  the  echoes  'way  over  the  hill, 
Tel  the  moon  boolges  out,  in  a  chorus 

Of  stars,  and  our  voices  is  still. 

But,  oh !  "They's  a  chord  in  the  music 

That's  missed  when  her  voice  is  away!" 

Though  I  listen  from  midnight   tel  morning, 

And  dawn   tel  the  dusk  of  the  day ! 


A  OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG.  43 

And  I  grope  through  the  dark,  lookin'  up'ards 

And  on  through  the  heavenly  dome, 
With  my  longin'  soul  singin'  and  sobbin' 

The  words,  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 


44  "COON-DOG   WESS." 


"COON-DOG  WESS." 

"Coon-dog  Wess"—  he  allus  went 
'Mongst  us  here  by  that-air  name. 

Moved  in  this-here  Settlement 

From  next  county — he  laid  claim, — 

Lived  down  in  the  bottoms — whare 

Ust  to  be  some  coons  in  thare ! — 

In  nigh  Clayton's,  next  the  crick, — 

Mind  old  Billy  ust  to  say 
Coons  in  thare  was  jest  that  thick, 

He'p  him  corn-plant  any  day! — 
And,  in  rostneer-time,  be  then 
Aggin'  him  to  plant  again ! 

Well,— In  Spring  o'  '67, 

This-here  "Coon-dog  Wess"  he  come- 
Fetchin'  'long  'bout  forty-'leven 

Ornriest-lookin'  hounds,  I  gum! 
Ever  mortul-man  laid  eyes 
On  sence  dawn  o'  Christian  skies! 


"COON-DOG  WESS"  45 

Wife  come  traipsin'  at  the  rag- 

Tag-and-bobtail  of  the  crowd, 
Dogs  and  childern,  with  a  bag 

Corn -meal  and  some  side-meat, — Proud 
And  as  independunt — My! — 
Yit  a  mild  look  in  her  eye. 

Well— this  "Coon-dog  Wess"  he  jest 

Moved  in  that-air  little  pen 
Of  a  pole-shed,  aidgin'  west 

On  "The  Slues  o'  Death,"  called  then.— 
Otter  and  mink-hunters  ust 
To  camp  thare  'fore  game  vam-moosd. 

Abul-bodied  man, — and  lots 

Call  fer  choppers — and  fer  hands 
To  git  cross-ties  out. — But  what's 

Work  to  sich  as  understands 
Ways  appinted  and  is  hence 
Under  special  providence? — 

"Coon-dog  Wess's"  holts  was  hounds 

And  coon-hnntiri' ';  and  he  knowed 
His  own  range,  and  stayed  in  bounds, 

And  left  work  fer  them  'at  showed 
Talents  fer  it — same  as  his 
Gifts  regardin'  coon-dogs  is. 


46  "COON-DOG  WESS." 

Hounds  of  ev'ry  mungerl  breed 

Ever  whelped  on  earth! — Had  these 

Yeller  kind,  with  punkin-seed 

Marks  above  theyr  eyes — and  fleas 

Both  to  sell  and  keep ! — Also 

These -here  lop-yeerd  hounds,  you  know. — 

Yes-and  brindle  hounds — and  long, 
Ga'nt  hounds,  with  them  eyes  they'  got 

So  blame  sorry,  it  seems  wrong, 
'Most,  to  kick  'em  as  to  not! 

Man,  though,  wouldn't  dast,  I  guess, 

Kick  a  hound  fer  coon-dog  Wess !" 

'Tended  to  his  own  affairs 

Stric'ly; — made  no  brags, — and  yit 

You  could  see  'at  them  hounds'  cares 
'Feared  like  his, — and  he'd  a-fit 

Fer  'em,  same  as  wife  er  child ! — 

Them  facts  made  folks  rickonciled, 

Sorto',  fer  to  let  him  be 

And  not  pester  him.     And  then 

Word  begin  to  spread  'at  he 
Had  brung  in  as  high  as  ten 

Coon-pelts  in  one  night — and  yit 

Didn't  'pear  to  boast  of  it ! 


" COON-DOG  WESS"  47 

Neghborhood  made  some  complaints 
'Bout  them  plague-gone  hounds  at  night 

Howlin'  fit  to  wake  the  saints, 

Clean  from  dusk  tel  plum  day-light ! 

But  to  "Coon-dog  Wess"  them-thare 

Howls  was  "music  in  the  air!" 

Fetched  his  pelts  to  Gilson's  Store — 

Newt  he  shipped  fer  him,  and  said, 
Sence   he'd  cooned  thare,  he'd  shipped  more 

Than  three  hunderd  pelts!— "By  Ned! 
Git  shet  of  my  store,"  Newt  says, 
"I'd  go  in  with  'Coon-dog  Wess' !" 

And  the  feller  'peared  to  be 

Makin'  best  and  most  he  could 
Of  his  rale  prospairity: — 

Bought  some  household  things — and  good, — 
Likewise,  wagon-load  onc't  come 
From  wharever  he'd  moved  from. 

But  pore  feller's  huntin'-days, 

'Bout  them  times,  was  glidin'  past! — 

Goes  out  onc't  one  night  and  stays! 
. .  .Neghbors  they  turned  out,  at  last, 

Headed  by  his  wife  and  one 

Half-starved  hound — and  search  begun. 


48  '•'•COON-DOG  WESS" 

Boys  said,  that  blame  hound,  he  led 
Searchin'  party,  'bout  a  half 

Mile  ahead,  and  bellerin',  said, 
Worse'n  ary  yearlin'  calf!  — 

Tel,  at  last,  come  fur-off  sounds 

Like  the  howl  of  other  hounds. 

And-sir,  shore  enugh,  them  signs 
Fetched  'em — in  a'  hour  er  two — 

Whare  the  pack  was; — and  they  finds 

"Coon-dog  Wess"  right  thare; — And  you 

Would  admitted  he  was  right 

Stay  in',  as  he  had,  all  night ! 

Fmcts  is,  cuttin'  down  a  tree, 
The  blame  thing  had  sorto'  fell 

In  a  twist-like — mercy  me! 

And  had  ketched  him. — Couldn't  tell, 

Wess  said,  how  he'd  managed — yit 

He'd  got  both  legs  under  it ! 

Fainted  and  come  to,  I  s'pose, 
'Bout  a  dozen  times  whilse  they 

Chopped  him  out ! — And  wife  she  froze 
To  him ! — bresh  his  hair  away 

And  smile  cheerful' — only  when 

He'd  faint.  —  Cry  and  kiss  him  then. 


"COON-DOG  WESS."  49 

Had  his  nerve ! — And  missed  him  through, — 
Neghbors  he'pped  her — all  she'd  stand. — 

Had  a  loom,  and  she  could  do 
Carpet -weavin'  railly  grand! — 

'"Sides,"  she  ust  to  laugh  and  say, 

"She'd  have  Wess,  now,  night  and  day !" 

As  fer  /«';»,  he'd  say,  says-ee, 

"I'm  resigned  to  bein'  lame: — 
They  was  four  coons  up  that  tree, 

And  hounds  got  'em,  jest  the  same !" 
'Feared  like,  one  er  two  legs  less 
Never  worried  "Coon-dog  Wess!" 


50        PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPA  TH. 


LINES  TO 
PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH  A.  M.,  LL.  D.  T-Y-TY! 


[Cumposed  by  A  Old  Friend  of  the  Fambily  sence  'way  back  in 
the  Forties,  when  they  Settled  nigh  Fillmore,  Putnuni  County,  this 
State,  whare  John  was  borned  and  growed  up,  you  might  say,  like 
the  wayside  flower.] 


YOUR  neghbors  in  the  country,  whare  you  come  from,  haint 

fergot  !  — 

We  knowed  you  even  better  than  your  own-self,  like  as  not. 
We  profissied  your  runnin'-geers  'ud  stand  a  soggy  load 
And  pull  her,  purty  stiddy,  up  a  mighty  rocky  road: 
We  been  a-watchin  your  career  sence   you  could  write  your 

name  — 

But  way  you  writ  it  first,  I'll  say,  was  jest  a  burnin'  shame: — 

Your"J.  C."in  the  copybook,  and  "Ridpath" — mercy-sakes! — 

Quiled  up  and  tide  in  dubble  bows,  lookt  like  a  nest  o'  snakes ! — 

But_y<7«  could  read  it,  I  suppose,  and  kindo'  gloted  on 

A-bein'  UJ.  C.  Ridpath'1'1   when  we  only  called  you  "John." 

But  you'd  work  's  well  as  fool,  and  what  you  had  to  do  was 

done: 
We've   watched  you   at  the   woodpile — not    the  -woodshed — 

wasent  none, — 


PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH.         51 

And  snow  and  sleet,  and  haulin',  too,  and  lookin'  after  stock, 
And  milkin',  nights,  and  feedin'  pigs, — then  turnin'  back  the 

clock, 

So's  you  could  set  up  studyin'  your  'Rethmatic,  and  fool 
Your  Parents,    whilse   a-piratin'    your   way   through   winter 

school ! 
And  I've  heerd  tell — from  your  own  folks — you've  set  and 

baked  your  face 

A-readin'  Plutark  Slives  all  night  by  that  old  fi-er-place. — 
Yit,  'bout   them  times,  the  blackboard,  onc't,  had  on   it,  I 

</<?-clare, 
"Yours  truly,  J.  Clark  Ridpath," — and  the  teacher — left 

it  thare! 

And  they  was  other  symptums,  too,  that  pinted,  plane  as  day 
To  nothin'  short  of  College  ! — and  one  was  the  lovin'  way 
Your  mother  had  of  cheerin'  you  to  efforts  brave  and  strong, 
And  puttin'  more  faith  in  you,  as  you  needed  it  along; 
She'd  pat  you  on  the  shoulder,  er  she'd  grab  you  by  the  hands, 
And  laugh  sometimes,    er   cry   sometimes. — They's  few   that 

understands 

Jest  what  theyr  mother's  drivin'  at  when  they  act  thataway; — • 
But  I'll  say  this  fer  you,  John-Clark, — you  answered,  night 

and  day, 
To    ev'ry  trust    and  hope  of  hers — and   half  your  College 

fame 
Was  battled  fer  and  won  fer  her  and  glory  of  her  name. 


52        PERFESSER  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH. 

The  likes  of  you  at  College!     But  you  went  there.    How  you 

paid 
Your  way  nobody's   astin' — but    you    worked, — you    haint 

afraid, — 

Your  clothes  was,  more'n  likely,  kindo'  out  o'  style,  perhaps, 
And  not  as  snug  and  warm  as  some  'at  hid  the  other  chaps; — 
But  when  it  come  to  Intnllect —  they  tell  me  yourn  was  dressed 
A  leetle  mite  superbcr,  like,  than  any  of  the  rest ! 
And  thare  you  stayed — and  thare  you've  made  your  rickord, 

fare  and  square — 

Tel  now  its  Fame  'at  writes  your  name,  approvin',  etfrywhare— 
Not  jibblets  of  it,  nuther, — but  all  John  Clark  Ridpath,  set 
Plum  'at  the  dashboard  of  the  whole-endurin'  Alphabet ! 


THE  AIRL  Y  DA  YS.  53 


A  TALE  OF  THE  AIRLY  DAYS. 

OH  !  tell  me  a  tale  of  the  airly  days — 

Of  the  times  as  they  ust  to  be; 
"Filler  of  Fi-er"  and  "Shakspeare's  Plays" 

Is  a'  most  too  deep  fer  me ! 
I  want  plane  facts,  and  I  want  plane  words, 

Of  the  good  old-fashiond  ways, 
When  speech  run  free  as  the  songs  of  birds 

'Way  back  in  the  airly  days. 

Tell  me  a  tale  of  the  timber-lands — 

Of  the  old-time  pioneers; 
Somepin'  a  pore  man  understands 

With  his  feelins's  well  as  ears. 
Tell  of  the  old  log  house, — about 

The  loft,  and  the  puncheon  floor — 
The  old  fi-er-place,  with  the  crane  swung  out, 

And  the  latch-string  through  the  door. 


54  THE  AIRL  Y   DA  YS. 

Tell  of  the  things  jest  as  they  was — 

They  don't  need  no  excuse ! — 
Don't  tech  'em  up'  like  the  poets  does, 

Tel  theyr  all  too  fine  fer  use! — 
Say  they  was  'leven  in  the  fambily — 

Two  beds,  and  the  chist,  below, 
And  the  trundle-beds  that  each  helt  three, 

And  the  clock  and  the  old  bureau. 

Then  blow  the  horn  at  the  old  back-door 

Tel  the  echoes  all  halloo, 
And  the  childern  gethers  home  onc't  more, 

Jest  as  they  list  to  do: 
Blow  fer  Pap  tel  he  hears  and  comes, 

With  Tomps  and  Elias,  too, 
A-marchin'  home,  with  the  fife  and  drums 

And  the  old  Red  White  and  Blue! 

Blow  and  blow  tel  the  sound  draps  low 

As  the  moan  of  the  whipperwill, 
And  wake  up  Mother,  and  Ruth  and  Jo, 

All  sleepin'  at  Bethel  Hill: 
Blow  and  call  tel  the  faces  all 

Shine  out  in  the  back -log's  blaze, 
And  the  shadders  dance  on  the  old  hewed  wall 

As  they  did  in  the  airly  days. 


"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE:''  55 


"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE." 

"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE"  was  all 

I  heerd,  mighty  near,  last  Fall — 

Visitun  relations  down 

Tother  side  of  Morgantown ! 

Mylo  Jones's  wife  she  does 

This  and  that,  and  "those"  and  "thus"! — 

Can't  'bide  babies  in  her  sight — 

Ner  no  clnldern,  day  and  night, 

Whoopin'  round  the  premises — 

Ner  no  nothirf  else,  I  guess! 

Mylo  Jones's  wife  she  'lows 

She's  the  boss  of  her  own  house! — 

Mylo — consequences  is — 

Stays  whare  things  seem  some  like  his, — 

Uses,  mostly,  with  the  stock — 

Coaxin'  "Old  Kate"  not  to  balk, 

Ner  kick  hossflies'  branes  out,  ner 

Act,  I  s'pose,  so  much  like  her! 

Yit  the  wimmern-folks  tells  you 

She's  perfection. — Yes  they  do ! 


56  "MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE." 

Mylo's  wife  she  says  she's  found 

Home  haint  home  with  men-folks  round, 

When  they's  work  like  hern  to  do — 

Picklin'  pears  and  butchern,  too, 

And  a-rendern  lard,  and  then 

Cookin  fer  a  pack  of  men 

To  come  trackin'  up  the  floor 

She's  scrubbed  tel  she'll  scrub  no  more  ! — 

Yit  she'd  keep  things  clean  ef  they 

Made  her  scrub  tel  Jedgmunt  Day ! 

Mylo  Jones's  wife  she  sews 
Carpet-rags  and  patches  clothes 
Jest  year  in  and  out  ! — and  yit 
Whare's  the  livin'  use  of  it  ? 
She  asts  Mylo  that. — And  he 
Gits  back  whare  he'd  ruther  be, 
With  his  team; — jest  plows  —  and  don't 
Never  sware — like  some  folks  wont ! 
Think  ef  he'd  cut  loose,  I  gum ! 
'D  he'p  his  heavenly  chances  some ! 

Mylo's  wife  don't  see  no  use, 
Net  no  reason  ner  excuse 
Fer  his  pore  relations  to 
Hang  round  like  they  allus  do ! 


"MYLO  JONES'S  WIFE"  57 

Thare  'bout  onc't  a  year— and  she — 
She  jest  ga'nis  'em,  folks  tells  me, 
On  spiced  pears ! — Pass  Mylo  one, 
He  says  "No,  he  don't  chuse  none!" 
Workin'  men  like  Mylo  they 
'D  ort  to  have  meat  ev'ry  day! 

Dad-burn  Mylo  Jones's  wife! 
Ruther  rake  a  blame  caseknife 
'Crost  my  wizzen  than  to  see 
Sich  a  wornem  rulin'  me  ! — 
Ruther  take  and  turn  in  and 
Raise  a  fool  mule-colt  by  hand ! 
Mylo,  though — od-rot  the  man ! — 
Jest  keeps  ca'm — like  some  folks  can — 
And  'lows  sich  as  her,  I  s'pose, 
Is  Man's  hepmeet\ — Mercy  knows! 


58  ON  A  SPLENDUD  MATCH. 


ON  A  SPLENDUD  MATCH. 


[On  the  night  of  the  marraige  of  the  foregoin'  couple,  which  shall 
be  nameless  here,  these  lines  was  ca'mly  dashed  off  in  the  albun  of 
the  happy  bride  whilse  the  shivver-ree  was  goin'  on  outside  the 
residence.] 


HE  was  warned  aginst  the  Tvomern — 
She  was  warned  aginst  the  man. — 

And  ef  that  won't  make  a  weddin', 
Wy,  they's  nothin'  else  that  can ! 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER.  59 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER  ON  BUCKEYES. 

OLD  John  Clevenger  lets  on, 

Allus,  like  he's  purty  rough 
Timber. — He's  a  grate  old  John ! — 

"Rough?" — don't  swaller  no  sich  stuff! 
Moved  here,  sence  the  war  was  through, 

From  Ohio— somers  near 
Old  Bucyrus, — loyal,  too, 

As  us  "Hoosiers"  is  to  here! 
Git  old  John  stirred  up  a  bit 

On  his  old  home  stompin' -ground — 
Talks  same  as  he  lived  thare  yit, 

When  some  subject  brings  it  round — 
Like,  fer  instunce,  Sund'y  last, 

Fetched  his  wife,  and  et  and  stayed 
All  night  with  us. — Set  and  gassed 

Tel  plum  midnight — 'cause  I  made 
Some  remark  'bout  "buckeyes"  and 

"What  was  buckeyes  good  fer?" — So, 
Like  I  'lowed,  he  waved  his  hand 

And  lit  in  and  let  me  know: — 


60  OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER. 

"  'What  is  Buckeyes  good  fer  ?'— What's 
Pineys  zx\&fergitmenots  ? — 
Honeysuckles,  and  sweet-peas, 
And  sweet-williamsuz,  and  these 
Johnny-jump-ups  ev'rywhare, 
Growin'  round  the  roots  o'  trees 
In  Spring-weather  ? — what  air  they 
Good  fer  ? — kin  you  tell  me — Hey  ? 
'Good  to  look  at  ?'     Well  they  air ! 
'Specially  when  Winter 's  gone, 
Clean  dead-certin  !  and  the  wood's 
Green  again,  and  sun  feels  good's 
June ! — and  shed  your  blame  boots  on 
The  back  porch,  and  lit  out  to 
Roam  round  like  you  ust  to  do, 
Barefoot,  up  and  down  the  crick, 
Whare  the  buckeyes  growed  so  thick, 
And  witch-hazel  and  pop-paws, 
And  hackberries  and  black -haws — 
With  wild  pizen-vines  jis  knit 
Over  and  en-minder  it, 
And  wove  round  it  all,  I  jing! 
Tel  you  couldn't  hardly  stick 
A  durn  caseknife  through  the  thing ! 
Wriggle  round  through  that;  and  then — 
All  het-up,  and  scratched  and  tanned, 
And  muskeeter-bit  and  mean- 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER.  61 

Feelin' — all  at  onc't  again, 
Come  out  suddent  on  a  clean 
Slopin'  little  hump  o'  green 
Dry  soft  grass,  as  fine  and  grand 
As  a  pollor-sofy ! — And 
Jis  pile  down  thare! — and  tell  me 
Anywhares  you'd  ruther  be — 
'Ceptin'  right  thare,  with  the  wild- 
Flowrs  all  round  ye,  and  your  eyes 
Smilin'  with  'em  at  the  skies, 
Happy  as  a  little  child! 
Well ! — right  here,  /  want  to  say, 
Poets  kin  talk  all  they  please 
'Bout  'wild-flowrs,  in  colors  gay', 
And  'sweet  blossoms  flaimtin'  theyr 
Beauteous  fragrance  on  the  breeze' — 
But  the  sight  o'  buckeyes  jis 
Sweet  to  me  as  blossoms  is ! 

"I'm  Ohio-born — right  whare 
People's  all  called  'Buckeyes'  thare — 
'Cause,  I  s'pose,  our  buckeye  crap's 
Biggest  in  the  world,  perhaps! — 
Ner  my  head  don't  stretch  my  hat 
Too  much  on  account  o'  that ! — 
'Cause  it's  Natchur's  ginerus  hand 
Sows  'em  broadcast  ore  the  land, 


62  OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER. 

With  eye-single  fer  man's  good 

And  the  gineral  neghborhood ! 

So  buckeyes  jis  natchurly 

'Pears  like  kith-and-kin  to  me! 

'Slike  the  good  old  sayin'  wuz, 

'Purty  is  as  purty  does  /'  — 

We  can't  eat  'em,  cooked  er  raw — 

Yit,  I  mind,  tomattitsuz 

Wuz  considered  pizenus 

One V — and  dassent  eat  'em !  —Pshaw — 

'Twouldn't  take  me  by  supprise, 

Someday,  ef  we  et  buckeyes! 

That,  though,  's  nuther  here  ner  thare  !- 

Jis  the  Buckeye,  whare  we  air, 

In  the  present  times,  is  what 

Ockuppies  my  lovin'  care 

And  my  most  perfoundest  thought ! 

. . .  Guess,  this  minute,  what  I  got 

In  my  pocket,  'at  I've  packed 

Purt-'nigh  forty  year.' — A  dry, 

Slick  and  shiny,  warped  and  cracked, 

Wilted,  weazened  old  buckeye! 

What's  it  thare  fer  ?     What's  my  hart 

In  my  brest  fer  ? — 'Cause  its  part 

Of  my  life — and  'tends  to  biz — 

Like  this  buckeye's  bound  to  act — 

'Cause  it  'tends  to  Rhiimatiz  \ 


OLD  JOHN  CLEVENGER.  63 

". .  .Ketched  more  rhumatiz  thanyfo h, 

Seinen',  onc't — and  pants  froze  on 

My  blame  legs ! — And  ust  to  wish 

I  wuz  well  er  dead  and  gone  ! 

Doc  give  up  the  case,  and  shod 

His  old  hoss  again  and  stayed 

On  good  roads! — And  thare  I  laid! 

Pap  he  tuck  some  bluegrass  sod 

Steeped  in  whisky,  bilin'-hot, 

And  socked  that  on!     Then  I  got 

Sorto'  holt  o'  him,  somehow — 

Kindo'  crazy  like,  they  say — 

And  I'd  killed  him,  like  as  not, 

Ef  I  hadn't  swooned  away! 

Smell  my  scortcht  p&lt  purt  ''nigh  now  ! 

Well — to  make  a  long  tale  short — 

I  hung  on  the  blame  disease 

Like  a  shavin'-hoss!  and  sort 

O'  wore  it  out  by  slow  degrees — 

Tell  my  legs  wuz  straight  enugh 

To  poke  through  my  pants  again 

And  kick  all  the  doctor-stuff 

In  the  fier-place!     Then  turned  in 

And  tuck  Uaddy  Craig's  old  cuore — 

Jis  a  buckeye — and  that's  shore. — 

Haint  no  case  o'  rhumatiz 

Kin  subsist  whare  buckeyes  is!" 


64  THE  HOSS. 


THE  HOSS. 

THE  HOSS  he  is  a  splendud  beast; 

He  is  man's  friend,  as  heaven  designed, 
And,  search  the  world  from  west  to  east, 

No  honester  you'll  ever  find! 

Some  calls  the  hoss  "a  pore  dumb  brute," 
And  yit,  like  Him  who  died  fer  you, 

I  say,  as  I  theyr  charge  refute, 

"  'Fergive;  they  know  not  what  they  do !'  " 

No  wiser  animal  makes  tracks 
Upon  these  earthly  shores,  and  hence 

Arose  the  axium,  true  as  facts, 

Extolled  by  all,  as  "Good  hoss-sense!" 

The  hoss  is  strong,  and  knows  his  stren'th, — 
You  hitch  him  up  a  time  er  two 

And  lash  him,  and  he'll  go  his  le'nth, 
And  kick  the  dashboard  out  fer  you ! 

But,  treat  him  allus  good  and  kind, 
And  never  strike  him  with  a  stick, 

Ner  aggervate  him,  and  you'll  find 
He'll  never  do  a  hostile  trick. 


THE  HOSS.  65 


A  boss  whose  master  tends  him  right 
And  worters  him  with  daily  care, 

Will  do  your  biddin'  with  delight, 
And  act  as  docile  as  you  air. 

He'll  paw  and  prance  to  hear  your  praise, 
Because  he's  learnt  to  love  you  well; 

And,  though  you  can't  tell  what  he  says, 
He'll  nicker  all  he  wants  to  tell. 


He  knows  you  when  you  slam  the  gate 
At  early  dawn,  upon  your  way 

Unto  the  barn,  and  snorts  elate, 
To  git  his  corn,  er  oats,  er  hay. 

He  knows  you,  as  the  orphant  knows 
The  folks  that  loves  her  like  theyr  own, 

And  raises  her  and  "finds"  her  clothes, 
And  "schools"  her  tel  a  womern-grown ! 

I  claim  no  hoss  will  harm  a  man, 
Ner  kick,  ner  run  away,  cavort, 

Stump-suck,  er  balk,  er  "catamaran," 
Ef  you'll  jest  treat  him  as  you  ort. 

5 


66  THE  HOSS. 


But  when  I  see  the  beast  abused, 

And  clubbed  around  as  I've  saw  some, 

I  want  to  see  his  owner  noosed, 
And  jest  yanked  up  like  Absolum ! 

Of  course  they's  differunce  in  stock,- 

A  hoss  that  has  a  little  yeer, 
And  slender  build,  and  shaller  hock, 

Can  beat  his  shadder,  mighty  near ! 

Whilse  one  that's  thick  in  neck  and  chist 
And  big  in  leg  and  full  in  flank, 

That  tries  to  race,  I  still  insist 
He'll  have  to  take  the  second  rank, 


And  I  have  jest  laid  back  and  laughed, 
And  rolled  and  wallered  in  the  grass 

At  fairs,  to  see  some  heavy-draft 
Lead  out  atyfrj/,  yit  come  in  last! 


Each  hoss  has  his  appinted  place, — 
The  heavy  hoss  should  plow  the  soil;- 

The  blooded  racer,  he  must  race, 
And  win  big  wages  fer  his  toil. 


THE  HOSS.  67 


I  never  bet — ner  never  wrought 
Upon  my  feller-man  to  bet — 

And  yit,  at  times,  I've  often  thought 
Of  my  convictions  with  regret. 


I  bless  the  hoss  from  hoof  to  head — 
From  head  to  hoof,  and  tale  to  mane!- 

I  bless  the  hoss,  as  I  have  said, 
From  head  to  hoof,  and  back  again ! 

I  love  my  God  the  first  of  all, 

Then  him  that  perished  on  the  cross; 

And  next,  my  wife, — and  then  I  fall 
Down  on  my  knees  and  love  the  hoss. 


68  EZRA  HOUSE. 


EZRA  HOUSE. 


[These  lines  was  writ,  in  ruther  high  sperits,  jest  at  the  close  of 
what's  called  the  Anti  Bellum  Days,  and  more  to  be  a-foolin'  than 
anything  else, — though  they  is  more  er  less  facts  in  it.  But  some  of 
the  boys,  at  the  time  we  was  all  a-singin'  it,  fer  Ezry's  benefit,  to 
the  old  tune  of  "The  Oak  and  the  Ash  and  the  Bonny  Wilier  Tree," 
got  it  struck  off  in  the  weekly,  without  leave  er  lisence  of  mine;  and 
so  sence  they's  allus  some  of  'em  left  to  rigg  me  about  it  yit,  I  might 
as  well  claim  the  thing  right  here  and  now,  so  here  goes.  I  give  it 
jest  as  it  appeard,  fixed  up  and  grammatisized  consider'ble,  as  the 
editer  told  me  he  took  the  liburty  of  doin',  in  that  sturling  old  home 
paper  THE  ADVANCE — as  sound  a  paper  yit  to-day  and  as  stanch  and 
abul  as  you'll  find  in  a  hunderd.] 


COME  listen,  good  people,  while  a  story  I  do  tell, 
Of  the  sad  fate  of  one  which  I  knew  so  passing  well; 
He  enlisted  at  McCordsville,  to  battle  in  the  south, 
And  protect  his  country's  union;  his  name  was  Ezra  House. 

He  was  a  young  school-teacher,  and  educated  high 
In  regards  to  Ray's  arithmetic,  and  also  Algebra: 
He  give  good  satisfaction,  but  at  his  country's  call 
He  dropped  his  position,  his  Algebra  and  all. 

"Its  Oh,  I'm  going  to  leave  you,  kind  scholars,"  he  said — 
For  he  wrote  a  composition  the  last  day  and  read; 
And  it  brought  many  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  school, 
To  say  nothing  of  his  sweetheart  he  was  going  to  leave  so 
soon. 


EZRA  HOUSE.  69 


"I  have  many  recollections  to  take  with  me  away, 
Of  the  merry  transpirations  in  the  school-room  so  gay; 
And  of  all  that's  past  and  gone  I  will  never  regret 
I  went  to  serve  my  country  at  the  first  of  the  outset !" 

He  was  a  good  penman,  and  the  lines  that  he  wrote 
On  that  sad  occasion  was  too  fine  for  me  to  quote, — 
For  I  was  there  and  heard  it,  and  I  ever  will  recall 
It  brought  the  happy  tears  to  the  eyes  of  us  all. 

And  when  he  left,  his  sweetheart  she  fainted  away, 

And  said  she  could  never  forget  the  sad  day 

When  her  lover  so  noble,  and  gallant  and  gay, 

Said  "Fare  you  well,  my  true  love!" and  went  marching  away. 

But  he  hadn't  been  gone  for  more  than  two  months, 
When  the  sad  news  come — "he  was  in  a  skirmish  once, 
And  a  cruel  rebel  ball  had  wounded  him  full  sore 
In  the  region  of  the  chin,  through  the  canteen  he  wore. " 

But  his  health  recruited  up,  and  his  wounds  they  got  well, 
But  whilst  he  was  in  battle  at  Bull  Run  or  Malvern  Hill, 
The  news  come  again,  so  sorrowful  to  hear — 
"A  sliver  from  a  bombshell  cut  off  his  right  ear." 

But  he  stuck  to  the  boys,  and  it's  often  he  would  write, 
That  "he  wasn't  afraid  for  his  country  to  fight." 
But  oh,  had  he  returned  on  a  furlough,  I  believe 
He  would  not,  to-day,  have  such  cause  to  grieve. 


70  EZRA  HOUSE. 


For  in  another  battle — the  name  I  never  heard — 

He  was  guarding  the  wagons  when  an  accident  occurred, — 

A  comrade  who  was  under  the  influence  of  drink, 

Shot  him  with  a  musket  through  the  right  cheek,  I  think. 

But  his  dear  life  was  spared;  but  it  hadn't  been  for  long, 
'Till  a  cruel  rebel  colonel  come  riding  along. 
And  struck  him  with  his  sword,  as  many  do  suppose, 
For  his  cap-rim  was  cut  off,  and  also  his  nose. 

But  Providence,  who  watches  o'er  the  noble  and  the  brave, 
Snatched  him  once  more  from  the  jaws  of  the  grave; 
And  just  a  little  while  before  the  close  of  the  war, 
He  sent  his  picture  home  to  his  girl  away  so  far. 

And  she  fell  into  decline,  and  she  wrote  in  reply, 
"She  had  seen  his  face  again  and  was  ready  to  die;" 
And  she  wanted  him  to  promise,  when  she  was  in  her  tomb, 
He  would  only  visit  that  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

But  he  never  returned  at  the  close  of  the  war, 
And  the  boys  that  got  back  said  he  hadn't  the  heart; 
But  he  got  a  position  in  a  powder-mill,  and  said 
He  hoped  to  meet  the  doom  that  his  country  denied. 


A  PEN-PICTUR^.  71 


A  PEN-PICTUR' 
OF  A  CERTIN  FRIVVOLUS  OLD  MAN. 

MOST  ontimely  old  man  yit ! 

'Pear-like  sometimes  he  jest  tries 

His  fool-self,  and  takes  the  bitt 
In  his  teeth  and  jest  de-fies 

All  perpryties ! — Lay  and  swet 
Doin'  not  hit? — only  jest 

Sorto'  speckillatun  on 

Whare  old  summertimes  is  gone, 
And  'bout  things  that  he  loved  best 

When  a  youngster !     Heerd  him  say 

Springtimes  made  him  thataway — 
Speshully  on  S unify* — when 
Sun  shines  out  and  in  again, 

And  the  lonesome  old  hens  they 
Git  off  under  the  old  kern- 
Bushes,  and  in  deep  concern 
Talk-like  to  theyrselvs,  and  scratch 
Kindo'  absunt -minded,  jest 

Like  theyr  thoughts  was  fur  away 

In  some  neghbor's  gyarden-patch 
Folks  has  tended  carefullest ! 


72  A  PEN-P1CTUR1. 

Heerd  the  old  man  dwell  on  these 

Idys  time  and  time  again! — 
Heerd  him  claim  that  orchurd-trees 

Bloomin',  put  the  mischief  in 
His  old  hart  sometimes  that  bad 
And  owdacious  that  he  "had 

To  break  loose  someway,"  says  he, 

"Ornry  as  I  ust  to  be !" 

Heerd  him  say  one  time — when  I 
Was  a  sorto'  standin'  by, 

And  the  air  so  still  and  clear, 

Heerd  the  bell  fer  church  clean  here  !- 
Said  :  "Ef  I  could  climb  and  set 

On  the  old  three-cornerd  rail 
Old  home-place,  nigh  Maryette', 

Swop  my  soul  off,  hide  and  tale !" 
And-sir !  blame  ef  tear  and  laugh 
Didn't  ketch  him  half  and  half! 

"Oh!"  he  says,  "to  wake  and  be 
Barefoot,  in  the  airly  dawn 

In  the  pastur! — thare,"  says  he, 
"Standin'  whare  the  cow's  slep'  on 

The  cold,  dewy  grass  that's  got 

Print  of  her  jest  steamy  hot 
Fer  to  warm  a  feller's  heels 
In  a  while! — How  good  it  feels! 


A  PEN-PICTUR\  73 

Sund'y ! — Country ! — Morning !— Hear 
Nothin'  but  the  silunce.  —  see 

Nothin'  but  green  woods  and  clear 
Skies  and  unwrit  poetry 
By  the  acre ! . . .  Oh !"  says  he, 

"What's  this  voice  of  mine? — to  seek 

To  speak  out,  and  yit  carft  speak ! 

"Think!— the  lazyest  of  days"— 

Takin'  his  contrairyest  leap, 

He  went  on, — "git  up,  er  sleep — 
Er  whilse  feedin',  watch  the  haze 

Dancin'  'crost  the  wheat, — and  keep 
My  pipe  goin'  laisurely — 
Puff  and  whiff  as  pleases  me, — 

Er  I'll  leave  a  trail  of  smoke 
Through  the  house!— no  one'll  say 
'  Throw  that  nasty  thing  away  I' 

'Pear-like  nothin'  sacerd's  broke, 
Goin'  barefoot  ef  I  chuse! — 

I  have  fiddled  ; — and  dug  bait 
And  went  fishin"1 ; — pitched  hoss-shoes — 
Whare  they  couldn't  see  us  from 
The  main  road. — And  I've  beat  some. 

I've  set  round  and  had  my  joke 
With  the  thrashers  at  the  barn — 
And  I've  swopped  'em  yarn  fer  yarn ! — 


74  A  PEN~-PICTUR\ 

Er  I've  hepped  the  childern  poke 
Fer  hens' -nests. — agged  on  a  match 
Twixt  the  boys,  to  watch  'em  scratch 

And  paw  round  and  rip  and  tear, 

And  bust  buttons  and  pull  hair 
To  theyr  rompin'  harts'  content — 

And  me  jest  a-settin'  thare 
Hatchin'  out  more  devilment ! 

"What  you  s'pose  now  ort  to  be 
Done  with  sich  a  man  ?"  says  he — 
"Sich  a  fool-old-man  as  me!" 


WET-WEATHER  TALK.  75 


WET-WEATHER  TALK. 

It  hain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complane; 

It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice; 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 
W'y,  rain's  my  choice, 

Men  giner'ly,  to  all  intents— 
Although  they're  apt  to  grumble  some — 
Puts  most  theyr  trust  in  Providence, 
And  takes  things  as  they  come — 
That  is,  the  commonality 
Of  men  that's  lived  as  long  as  me 
Has  watched  the  world  enugh  to  learn 
They're  not  the  boss  of  this  concern. 

With  some,  of  course,  it's  different — 

I've  saw  young  men  that  knowed  it  all, 
And  didn't  like  the  way  things  went 
On  this  terrestial  ball; — 

But  all  the  same,  the  rain,  some  way, 
Rained  jest  as  hard  on  picnic  day; 
Er,  when  they  railly  wanted  it, 
It  mayby  wouldn't  rain  a  bit ! 


76  WET-WEATHER  TALK. 


In  this  existunce,  dry  and  wet 

Will  overtake  the  best  of  men — 
Some  little  skift  o'  clouds'll  shet 
The  sun  off  now  and  then.  — 

And  mayby,  whilse  you're  wundern  who 
You've  fool-like  lent  your  umbrell'  to, 
And  want  it  — out'll  pop  the  sun, 
And  you'll  be  glad  you  hain't  got  none! 

It  aggervates  the  farmers,  too — 

They's  too  much  wet,  er  too  much  sun, 
Er  work,  er  waitin'  round  to  do 
Before  the  plo win's  done. 

And  mayby,  like  as  not,  the  wheat, 
Jest  as  it's  lookin'  hard  to  beat, 
Will  ketch  the  storm — and  jest  about 
The  time  the  corn's  a-jinlin'  out. 

These-here  cy-cloties  a-foolin'  round — 

And  back'ard  crops! — and  wind  and  rain!— 
And  yit  the  corn  that's  wallerd  down 
May  elbow  up  again ! — 

They  hain't  no  sense,  as  1  can  see, 
Fer  mortuls,  sich  as  us,  to  be 
A-faultin'  Natchur's  wise  intents, 
And  lockin'  horns  with  Providence ! 


WET-WEATHER  TALK.  77 

It  hain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complane; 

Its  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice. — 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 
W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 


78  A  PORE  JOKE. 


THOUGHTS  ON  A  PORE  JOKE. 

I  like  fun — and  I  like  jokes 
'Bout  as  well  as  most  o'  folks! — 

Like  my  joke,  and  like  my  fun; — 
But  a  joke,  I'll  state  right  here, 
'Sgot  some  p'int  —  er  I  don't  keer 

Fer  no  joke  that  haintgot  none. — 
I  haint  got  no  use,  I'll  say, 
Fer  a  pore  joke,  anyway! 

F'rinstunce,  now,  when  some  folks  gits 
To  relyin'  on  theyr  wits, 
Ten  to  one  they  git  too  smart 
And  spile  it  all,  right  at  the  start ! 
Feller  wants  to  jest  go  slow 
And  do  his  thinkM  first,  you  know. 
'F  I  can't  think  np  somepin'  good, 
I  set  still  and  chaw  my  cood ! 

'F  you  think  nothin' — jest  keep  on, 
But  don't  say  it — er  you're  gone! 


A  MORTUL  PRAYER.  79 


A  MORTUL  PRAYER. 

OH !  Thou  that  vaileth  from  all  eyes 

The  glory  of  thy  face, 
And  setteth  throned  behind  the  skies 

In  thy  abiding-place: 
Though  I  but  dimly  recko'nize 

Thy  purposes  of  grace; 
And  though  with  weak  and  wavering 

Deserts,  and  vexd  with  fears, 
I  lift  the  hands  I  cannot  wring 

All  dry  of  sorrow's  tears, 
Make  puore  my  prayers  that  daily  wing 

Theyr  way  unto  thy  ears! 

Oh !  with  the  hand  that  tames  the  flood 

And  smooths  the  storm  to  rest, 
Make  bammy  dews  of  all  the  blood 

That  stormeth  in  my  brest, 
And  so  refresh  my  hart  to  bud 

And  bloom  the  loveliest. 
Lull  all  the  clammer  of  my  soul 

To  silunce;  bring  release 
Unto  the  brane  still  in  controle 

Of  doubts;  bid  sin  to  cease, 
And  let  the  waves  of  pashun  roll 

And  kiss  the  shores  of  peace. 


8o  A  MORTUL  PRAYER. 

Make  me  to  love  my  feller-man — 
Yea,  though  his  bitterness 

Doth  bite  as  only  adders  can- 
Let  me  the  fault  confess, 

And  go  to  him  and  clasp  his  hand 
And  love  him  none  the  less. 

So  keep  me,  Lord,  ferever  free 
From  vane  concete  er  whim; 

And  he  whose  pius  eyes  can  see 
My  faults,  however  dim, — 

Oh !  let  him  pray  the  least  fer  me, 
And  me  the  most  fer  him. 


THE  FIRS  T  BL  UEBIRD.  81 


THE  FIRST  BLUEBIRD. 

JEST  rain  and  snow !  and  rain  again ! 
And  dribble!  drip!  and  blow! 

Then  snow !  and  thaw !  and  slush !  and  then- 
Some  more  rain  and  snow ! 

This  morning  I  was  'most  afeard 

To  "Make  up — when,  I  jing! 
I  seen  the  sun  shine  out  and  heerd 

The  first  bluebird  of  Spring! — 
Mother  she'd  raised  the  winder  some; — 
And  in  acrost  the  orchard  come, 

Soft  as  a  angel's  wing, 
A  breezy,  treesy,  beesy  hum, 

Too  sweet  fer  anything ! 

The  winter's  shroud  was  rent  a-part — 

The  sun  bust  forth  in  glee, — 
And  when  that  bluebird  sung,  my  hart 

Hopped  out  o'  bed  with  me! 
6 


EVA  GENE   BAKER. 


EVAGENE  BAKER  — WHO  WAS  DYIN  OF  DRED  CONSUM- 
TION  AS  THESE  LINES  WAS  PENNED  BY  A  TRUE  FRIEND. 

PORE  afflicted  Evagene ! 

Whilse  the  woods  is  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  birds  on  ev'ry  hand 

Sings  in  rapture  sweet  and  grand, — 

Thou,  of  all  the  joyus  train, 

Art  bedridden,  and  in  pain 
Sich  as  only  them  can  cherish 
Who,  like  flowrs,  is  first  to  perish ! 

When  the  neghbors  brought  the  word 

She  was  down  the  folks  inferred 

It  was  jest  a  cold  she'd  caught, 

Dressin'  thinner  than  she'd  ort 

Fer  the  frolicks  and  the  fun 

Of  the  dancin'  that  she'd  done 
'Fore  the  Spring  was  flush  er  ary 
Blossom  on  the  peach  er  cherry. 


EVA  GENE   BAKER.  83 

But,  last  Sund'y,  her  request 

Fer  the  Church's  prayers  was  jest 

Rail  hart-renderin'  to  hear! — 

Many  was  the  silunt  tear 

And  the  tremblin'  sigh,  to  show 

She  was  dear  to  us  below 

On  this  earth — and  dearer,  even, 
When  we  thought  of  her  a-leavin' ! 

Sisters  prayed,  and  coted  from 

Genesis  to  Kingdom-come 

Provin'  of  her  title  clear 

To  the  mansions. — "Even  her," 

They  claimed,  "might  be  saved,  someway, 

Though  she'd  danced  and  played  crowkay, 

And  wrought  on  her  folks  to  git  her 

Fancy  shoes  that  never  fit  her !" 

Us  to  pray  fer  Evagene  ! — 
With  her  hart  as  puore  and  clean 
As  a  rose  is  after  rain 
When  the  sun  comes  out  again ! — 
What's  the  use  to  pray  fer  her  ? 
She  don't  need  no  prayin'  fer! — 

Needed,  all  her  life,  more  playiri1 

Than  she  ever  needed  prayin' ! 


84  EVA  GENE    BAKER. 

I  jest  thought  of  all  she'd  been 
Sence  her  mother  died,  and  when 
She  turned  in  and  done  her  part — 
All  her  cares  on  that  child-hart ! — 
Thought  of  years  she'd  slaved — and  had 
Saved  the  farm — danced  and  was  glad . . . 
Mayby  Him  who  marks  the  sporry 
Will  smooth  down  her  wings  tomorry ! 


ON  ANY  ORDENAR  Y  MAN.  85 


ON  ANY  ORDENARY  MAN  IN  A  HIGH  STATE  OF  LAUGH- 
TURE  AND  DELIGHT. 

As  its  give'  me  to  percieve, 

I  most  certin'y  believe 

When  a  man's  jest  glad  plum  through, 

God's  pleased  with  him,  same  as  you. 


86  TO  WN  AND  CO  UNTR  Y. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 

They's  a  predjudice  allus  twixt  country  and  town 

Which  I  wisht  in  my  hart  wasent  so. 
You  take  city  people,  jest  square  up  and  down, 

And  theyr  mighty  good  people  to  know: 
And  whare's  better  people  a-livin',  to-day, 

Than  us  in  the  country  ? — Yit  good 
As  both  of  us  is,  we're  divorsed,  you  might  say, 

And  won't  compermise  when  we  could! 

Now  as  nigh  into  town  fer  yer  Pap,  ef  you  please, 

Is  the  what's  called  the  sooburbs. — Fer  thare 
You'll  at  least  ketch  a  whiff  of  the  breeze  and  a  sniff 

Of  the  breth  of  wild-flowrs  ev'rywhare. 
They's  room  fer  the  childern  to  play,  and  grow,  too — 

And  to  roll  in  the  grass,  er  to  climb 
Up  a  tree  and  rob  nests,  like  they  orient  to  do, 

But  they'll  do  anyhow  ev'ry  time! 

My  Son-in-law  said,  when  he  lived  in  the  town, 
He  jest  natchurly  pined,  night  and  day, 

Fer  a  sight  of  the  woods,  er  a  acre  of  ground 
Whare  the  trees  wasent  all  cleared  away ! 


TO  WN  AND  CO  UNTR  Y.  87 


And  he  says  to  me  onc't,  whilse  a-visitin'  us 
On  the  farm,  "It's  not  strange,  I  declare, 

That  we  can't  coax  you  folks,  without  raisin'  a  fuss, 
To  come  to  town,  visitin'  thare!" 

And  says  I,  "Then  git  back  whare  you  sorto'  belong — 

And  Madaline,  too, — and  yer  three 
Little  childern,"  says  I,  "that  don't  know  a  bird-song, 

Ner  a  hawk  from  a  chicky-dee-dee ! 
Git  back,"  I-says-I,  "to  the  blue  of  the  sky 

And  the  green  of  the  fields,  and  the  shine 
Of  the  sun,  with  a  laugh  in  yer  voice  and  yer  eye 

As  harty  as  Mother's  and  mine !" 

Well — long-and-short  of  it, — he's  compermised  some — 

He's  moved  in  the  sooburbs. — And  now 
They  don't  haf  to  coax,  when  they  want  us  to  come, 

'Cause  we  turn  in  and  go  any/tow  ! 
Fer  thare — well,  they's  room  fer  the  songs  and  purfume 

Of  the  grove  and  the  old  orchurd-ground, 
And  they's  room  fer  the  childern  out  thare,  and  they's  room 

Fer  theyr  Gran'  pap  to  waller  'em  round! 


LINES  PER  ISAAC  BRAD  WELL. 


LINES    PER    ISAAC    BRADWELL,  OF  INDANOPLIS,   IND., 
COUNTY-SEAT  OF  MARION. 


[Writ  on  the  flyleaf  of  a  volume  of  the  author's  poems  that  come 
in  one  of  gittin'  burnt  up  in  the  great  Bowen-Merrill's  fire  of  March 
17,  1890.] 


THROUGH  fire  and  flood  this  book  has  passed. — 

Fer  what? — I  hardly  dare  to  ast — 

Less'n  its  still  to  pamper  me 

With  extry  food  fer  vanity; — 

Fer,  sence  its  fell  in  hands  as  true 

As  yourn  is —  and  a  Hoosier  too, — 

I'm  prouder  of  the  book,  I  jmg! 

Than  'fore  they  tried  to  burn  the  thing! 


DECORATION  DAY  ON   THE  PLACE. 


DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE. 

ITS  LONESOME — sorto'  lonesome, — its  a  Sunday-day,  to  me, 
It  'pears-like — more'n  any  day  I  nearly  ever  see! 
Yit,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  above,  a-flutterin'  in  the  air, 
On  ev'ry  Soldier's  grave  I'd  love  to  lay  a  lilly  thare. 

They  say,  though,  Decoration  Days  is  ginerly  observed 
'Most  erf ry-w hares  —  espeshally  by  soldier-boys  that's  served. — 
But  me  and  Mother's  never  went — we  seldom  git  away, — 
In  pint  o?  fact,  we're  allus  home  on  Decoration  Day. 

They  say  the  old  boys  marches  through  the  streets  in  colum's 

grand, 

A-follerin'  the  old  war-tunes  theyr  playin'  on  the  band — 
And  citizuns  all  jinin'  in  -  and  little  childern,  too  — 
All  marchin',  under  shelter  of  the  old  Red  White  and  Blue. — 

With  roses!  roses!  roses! — ev'rybody  in  the  town! — 

And  crowds  o'  little  girls  in  white,  jest  fairly  loaded  down ! — 

Oh!  don't   THE   BOYS  know  it,   from  theyr  camp  acrost  the 

hill  ?— 
Don't  they  see  theyr  com'ards  comin'  and  the  old  flag  wavin' 

still  ? 


90        DECORATION  DAY  ON  THE  PLACE. 

Oh!  can't  they  hear  the  bugul  and  the  rattle  of  the  drum? — 
Ain't  they  no  way  under  heavens  they  can  rickollect  us  some  ? 
Ain't  they  no  way  we  can  coax  'em,  through  the  roses,  jest  to 

say 
They  know  that  ev'ry  day  on  earth's  theyr  Decoration  Day  ? 

We've  tried  that — me  and  Mother, — whare  Elias  takes  his  rest, 
In  the  orchurd — in  his  uniform,  and  hands  acrost  his  brest, 
And  the  flag  he  died  fer,  smilin'  and  a-ripplin'  in  the  breeze 
Above  his  grave  —  and  over  that, — the  robin  in  the  trees  ! 

And  yit  its  lonesome — lonesome ! — It's  a  Sund'y-day,  to  me, 
It  'pears-like — more'n  any  day  I  nearly  ever  see! — 
Still,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  above,  a-flutterin'  in  the  air, 
On  ev'ry  Soldier's  grave  I'd  love  to  lay  a  lilly  thare. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


tD       , 

URL       Jl 


3 


)Rt 

982 


Form  L9-10wi-l,'52  (9291 ) 444 


PS       Hiley  - 
270b 


N31 

-1ST 


PS 

270)4 

N   1 


3   1158  00765   1499 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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